OF  CHALLENGE 


L 

Univ  .I'sity   of 

California 

Irvine 


SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


_SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

An  anthology  selected  and  arranged 
by  ROBERT  FROTHINGHAM 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS  CAMBRIDGE 
1922 


Ff 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLJN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Cbe  »iber«iDt 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PKINTBD  IN  THE  U.S.  A 


TO 
ERMAN  J.  RIDGWAY 

1  Yet  always  the  aspiring  Soul,  — 
The  Angel  in  the  mortal  clod, 

The  Vision  that  defies  control,  — 
Will  look  through  Nature  up  to  God; 

And  strive  in  word  and  form  to  speak 
The  beauty  it  was  born  to  seek." 


FOREWORD 


Man  has  always  been  at  war  with  himself,  and 
every  now  and  again  he  awakens  to  the  conscious- 
ness that  his  discontent  is  divine.  Then  he  turns 
in  weariness  from  his  greatest  material  accomplish- 
ments toward  the  "Happy  Isles"  of  his  imagina- 
tion. We  all  have  our  secret  dreams,  which  gen- 
erally include  a  revolt  against  our  own  limitations 
and  a  longing  for  better  things  than  those  we  know. 

"Whence"  and  "Whither"  will  ever  be  insepa- 
rable phases  of  the  Great  Adventure,  as  the  real 
man  views  it.  And,  inasmuch  as  this  compilation 
is  meant  for  that  particular  breed,  it  will  be  quite 
apparent  to  him  that  there  is  no  intent  to  "point  a 
moral  or  adorn  a  tale,"  to  either  affirm  or  deny, 
and  least  of  all,  to  constitute  itself  a  moral  or  spir- 
itual finger-board. 

From  the  standpoint  of  the  materialist,  one  of 
life's  tragedies  lies  in  the  fact  that  so  many  of  us 
know  so  many  things  that  are  n't  so.  Scarce  one  of 
us,  however,  but  recognizes  that 

"  When  the  fight  begins  within  himself, 
A  man's  worth  something." 

Pin  us  down  and  you'll  find  that  most  of  us  be- 
lieve in  our  kinship  with  the  worth-while  things,  the 
truly  big  things,  "the  stars  which  fleck  our  jour- 
ney's dusks."  But  it's  like  squaring  the  circle  when 
we  try  to  weave  that  belief  into  the  warp  and  woof 


viii  FOREWORD 


of  our  daily  grind.  The  great  majority  of  us  are  es- 
sentially religious  —  not  theologically  nor  doctri- 
nally,  and  frequently  not  even  intellectually.  But  — 
in  the  inner  recesses  of  our  spirit,  where  joy  v/orks 
alone,  there  is  a  glow  like  unto  the  fire  of  a  moun- 
tain sunset  of  which  the  most  wondrous  view  is  to 
be  had  from  the  most  distant  range:  our  soul's 
intimate  dream,  human  nature's  Holy  of  Holies. 
Here,  under  an  impulse,  conscious  or  unconscious, 
to  be  free  of  laws  and  restraints,  with  the  thousand 
and  one  superfluous  precepts  of  poor,  timorous 
humanity  thrown  aside,  without  the  necessity  for 
breaking  our  shins  against  the  Decalogue  or  rub- 
bing our  shoulders  raw  under  the  yoke  of  any  partic- 
ular creed,  we  kneel  to  "whatever  gods  may  be" 
and  strive  to  play  the  game. 

Of  all  the  lessons  brought  home  to  us  by  the 
World  War,  this  reawakening  of  our  relationship 
with  the  Unseen,  with  its  consequent  reestablish- 
ment  of  spiritual  values  is,  perhaps,  the  most  signif- 
icant. We  needed  to  be  reminded  of  the  fact  that 
man  pays.  He  has  always  paid :  for  being  born,  for 
living,  for  dying.  The  principal  thing  that  has  dis- 
tinguished us  from  our  early  ancestors  is  that  we 
have  been  trying  to  get  too  much  for  our  money. 
We  have  been  taking  out  more  than  we  put  in.  We 
invited  a  crash  and  we  got  it.  Praises  be,  however, 
along  with  it  has  come  the  Vision  that  is  helping  a 
lot  of  us  off  the  treadmill:  the  Vision  of  the  Spirit 
of  Song.  When  a  man  can  sing  acceptably  about 
either  his  belief  or  his  unbelief,  whether  it  agrees 
with  what  you  and  I  think  or  not,  we  can  afford  to 
stop  and  listen;  in  fact,  we  can't  afford  not  to  do  so. 


FOREWORD  ix 


Some  writer  has  said  that  human  needs  are  the 
true  ligatures  between  God  and  man.  How  small 
vanities  disappear  and  how  vital  stout  sincerity 
becomes  in  the  face  of  such  a  belief  I 

There  are  a  lot  of  men  who  claim  to  have  no  lik- 
ing for  poetry,  others  who  read  it  surreptitiously  as 
though  it  were  forbidden  fruit,  and  still  others  who 
profess  to  regard  a  love  for  it  as  a  sort  of  effeminate 
dilettantism.  The  very  word  "poetry"  conveys  a 
wrong  meaning  to  some  men.  This  little  book  is 
filled  with  robust  verse,  intended  to  appeal  to  the 
very  men  I  have  described.  If  it  has  any  mission  at 
all,  it  seeks  simply  to  make  vivid  that  Vision  which 
pierces  the  murk  and  scatters  our  up-to-date  cock- 
sureness  to  the  four  winds,  and  to  restore  to  hearts 
grown  callous  and  dour  the  inspiration  and  the 
warmth  of  the  Spirit  of  Song : 

"Beholding  dimly  from  afar  the  glory  of  the  Hidden 

Face  — 
Our  worship  ever  our  reward,  the  quest  our  golden 

coronal." 

R.  F. 

New  York 
October,  1922 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


The  editor  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to  the 
following  authors  and  publishers  for  the  use  of 
copyright  poems: 

Messrs.  Angus  &  Robertson,  Ltd.,  Sydney,  Aus- 
tralia, for  "Only  Laughter  is  Sure,"  from  The 
Australian,  and  "Stars  in  the  Mist,"  from  Hearts 
of  Gold,  by  Will  H.  Ogilvie;  and  "He  Giveth  his 
Beloved  Sleep,"  from  Rio  Grande's  Last  Race,  by 
Major  A.  B.  Paterson. 

Mr.  Richard  G. Badger  for  "A  Cowboy's  Prayer," 
from  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather,  by  Badger  Clark. 

The  Bookfellows  of  Chicago  for  "Requiem"  and 
"The  Great  Adventure,"  from  Phantom  Caravans, 
by  Major  Kendall  Banning. 

Messrs.  Chappell  &  Co.,  music  publishers,  Lon- 
don, and  the  author  for  "Hush  your  Prayers,"  by 
Conal  O'Riordon  (Norreys  Connell,  pseud.) 

Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  for  "Nirvana,"  from 
Poems,  by  Rosamund  Marriott  Watson;  and  "He 
fell  among  Thieves,"  from  The  Island  Race,  by 
Sir  Henry  Newbolt. 

Messrs.  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  "A  Poet 
Enlists,"  from  The  Silver  Trumpet  (copyright, 
1918),  and  "Because  I  Have  Loved  Life,"  from 
Life  and  Living  (copyright,  1916),  by  Amelia 
Josephine  Burr. 

Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  for  "The  Awak- 
ening," from  Poems  and  Portraits,  by  Don  Marquis ; 


xii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

and  "Barest  thou  now,  O  Soul,"  "Passage  to 
India,"  and  "Song  of  the  Universal,"  from  Leaves 
of  Grass,  by  Walt  Whitman. 

Messrs.  Duffield  &  Co.  for  "Wine  of  Omar 
Khayyam,"  from  Mimma  Bella,  by  Eugene  Lee- 
Hamilton. 

Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.  for  permission  to 
publish  "The  Dance  of  Death,"  from  The  Collected 
Poems  of  Austin  Dobson. 

Messrs.  Forbes  &  Co.  for  "The  Certain  Victo- 
ry," from  Ballads  of  the  Busy  Days,  by  S.  E.  Kiser. 

The  Franklin  Press  for  "He  whom  a  Dream 
hath  Possessed,"  from  The  Blossomy  Bough,  by 
Shaemas  O'Sheel. 

Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  for  "The  Seeker," 
from  Dreams  and  Dust,  by  Don  Marquis;  and  "At 
the  Top  of  the  Road,"  from  Star-Glow  and  Song,  by 
Charles  Buxton  Going. 

Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  "Make 
me  no  Grave"  and  "The  Sun- Worshipers,"  from 
Songs  of  the  Trail,  by  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs; 
"Waiting,"  by  John  Burroughs;  "Live  your  Life, 
then  take  your  Hat,"  by  Henry  David  Thoreau; 
"The  Problem,"  by  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson;  "Dawn 
in  the  Desert,"  from  Poems,  by  Clinton  Scollard; 
"  lo  Victis,"  by  William  Wetmore  Story ;  and  "  Room 
for  a  Soldier,"  by  Thomas  William  Parsons. 

Mr.  Richard  LeGallienne  for  "The  Second  Cru- 
cifixion." 

Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Co.  for  "Coronation," 
from  Poems,  by  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

Erskine  Macdonald  for  "Courage,"  by  the  late 
Lieut.  Dyneley  Hussey. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xiii 

The  Macmillan  Company  for  "Atoms  and  Ages" 
and  "Peace  on  Earth,"  from  Collected  Poems  by 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  and  "April  Theology," 
"Prayer  for  Pain,"  and  "When  I  have  gone  Weird 
Ways,"  from  The  Quasi,  by  John  G.  Neihardt. 

Mr.  Thomas  Bird  Mosher  for  "Tears,"  from  A 
Wayside  Lute,  by  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese;  and 
"A  Man's  Bargain,"  from  Tomorrow's  Road,  by 
Gertrude  M.  Hort. 

Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  "Each  in  his 
Own  Tongue,"  from  Each  in  his  Own  Tongue,  and 
Other  Poems,  by  William  Herbert  Carruth;  and 
"The  Washerwoman's  Song"  and  "Kriterion," 
from  Rhymes  of  Ironquill,  by  Eugene  F.  Ware. 

George  Routledge  &  Sons  for  "The  Dance  of 
Death,"  from  The  Collected  Poems  of  Austin  Dob- 
son. 

Mr.  Porter  E.  Sargent  for  "A  Man's  Guess"  and 
"The  Question,"  from  Miscellaneous  Moods,  by 
Elihu  Vedder. 

Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "Atoms  and 
Ages,"  from  Children  of  the  Night,  by  Edwin  Arling- 
ton Robinson;  and  "The  Departed  Friend"  and 
"If  this  were  Faith,"  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  for  "The  Lost 
Comrade,"  "Fear  not  the  Menace,"  and  "Scep- 
tics," from  Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia,  by  Rich- 
ard Hovey  and  Bliss  Carman. 

Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.  for  "Before  Action," 
from  Verse  and  Prose  in  Peace  and  War,  by  the  late 
Lieut.  W.  N.  Hodgson. 

Messrs.  P.  F.  Volland  &  Co.  for  "Each  in  his 
Own  Tongue,"  by  William  Herbert  Carruth. 


XIV 


Yale  University  Press  for  "Hunger,"  from 
Shadow  Verses,  by  Gamaliel  Bradford;  and  "The 
Dying  Pantheist  to  the  Priest,"  from  Poems,  by 
Henry  A.  Beers. 

The  American-Scandinavian  Foundation  for 
"Longing,"  by  Viktor  Rydberg;  and  "Prayer  amid 
Flames,"  by  Verner  von  Heidenstam,  from  An- 
thology of  Swedish  Lyrics. 

Century  Magazine  for  "When  the  Time  for 
Parting  Comes,"  by  Dorothea  Lawrance  Mann. 

Chicago  Tribune  for  "A  Nation's  Face  Up- 
turned," by  John  Bemer  Crosby. 

Contemporary  Verse  for  "The  Naturalist  on  a 
June  Sunday,"  by  Leonora  Speyer;  "Make  no 
Desperate  Search  for  God,"  by  John  French  Wil- 
son; and  "  One  Path,"  by  WilHam  Alexander  Percy. 

McClure's  Magazine  for  "The  Pipes  o'  Gordon's 
Men,"  by  J.  Scott  Glasgow. 

The  Nation  for  "The  Pagan,"  by  Rose  Hender- 
son. 

New  York  Sun  for  "Prayer  of  a  Poet  to  God,"  by 
Joseph  Bernard  Rethy. 

New  York  Times  for  "The  Laughing  Prayer," 
by  Louise  Driscoll;  and  "Deferred,"  by  Stokely  S. 
Fisher. 

New  York  Tribune  for  "The  Last  Tourney," 
"Dissolution,"  "Worship,"  "Litany,"  and  "To 
Captain  Dale  Mabry,"  by  Frederic  F.  Van  de 
Water;  and  "When  Charon  Beckons,"  by  Francis 
Woolsey  Bronson. 

The  Outlook  for  "I  Accept,"  by  Harold  Trow- 
bridge  Pulsifer. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xv 

Reedy's  Mirror  for  "Exile  from  God,"  by  John 
Hall  Wheelock. 

The  Roy  crofters  Anthology  for  "The  Agnostic's 
Creed,"  by  Walter  Malone. 

Saturday  Evening  Post  for  "With  the  Tide,"  by 
Edith  Wharton. 


CONTENTS 


A  POET  ENLISTS,  Amelia  Josephine  Burr  .  .  .35 

"  AD  CCELUM,"  Harry  Romaine 52 

AFTER  DEATH  IN  ARABIA,  Edwin  Arnold  ...  59 

AFTERWARDS,  Violet  Fane 130 

AGNOSTIC'S  CREED,  THE,  Walter  Malone  ...  65 
"  ALIENI  TEMPORIS  FLORES,"  G.  B.  C.  .  .  .  80 
APRIL  THEOLOGY,  John  G.  Neihardt  ....  87 

AT  SUNSET,  Seumas  O'Sullivan 136 

AT  THE  TOP  OF  THE  ROAD,  Charles  Buxton  Going  129 
ATOMS  AND  AGES,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  .  .  83 

AWAKENING,  THE,  Don  Marquis 104 

"  BECAUSE  I  HAVE  LOVED  LIFE,"  Amelia  Josephine 

Burr 22 

BEFORE  ACTION,  Lieut.  W.  N.  Hodgson  ...  9 

BEYOND,  John  Gibson  Lockhart 174 

BREAKING  THE  SILENCE,  Amanda  T.  Jones  .  .  135 
CERTAIN  VICTORY,  THE,  S.  E.  Kiser  ....  89 
CLEANTHES'  HYMN,  Cleanthes  the  Stoic  .  .  .166 
COAST  OF  COURAGE,  THE,  Anonymous  ...  56 

COLLAR,  THE,  George  Herbert 13 

CONCLUSION,  A,  Rachel  Annand  Taylor  .  .  .  .162 

CORONATION,  Helen  Hunt  Jackson 34 

•'  CORONEMUS  NOS  ROSIS  ANTEQUAM  MARCES- 

CANT,"  Thomas  Jordan  . 92 

COWBOY'S  PRAYER,  A,  Badger  Clark  ....  21 
DANCE  OF  DEATH,  THE,  Austin  Dobson  .  .  .  146 
"  DAREST  THOU  NOW,  O  SOUL,"  Walt  Whitman  115 


xviii  CONTENTS 


DAWN  IN  THE  DESERT,  Clinton  Scollard  .  .  .156 
DEAD  MARCH,  A,  Cosmo  Monkhouse  .  .  .  .126 

DEFERRED,  Stokely  S.  Fisher 73 

DEPARTED  FRIEND,  THE,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  .  137 

DESERVINGS,  Anonymous 65 

"  DIE,  DRIVEN  AGAINST  THE  WALL,"  Louise  Imogen 

Guiney IO 

DISSOLUTION,  Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water  .  .  .ill 
DYING  PANTHEIST  TO  THE  PRIEST,  THE,  Henry  A. 

Beers 76 

EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE,  William  Herbert  Car- 
ruth  51 

EARTH  GETS  ITS  PRICE,  James  Russell  Lowell  .  .  39 
END  OF  ALL,  THE,  James  Clarence  Mangan  .  .  .  145 

EPITAPH,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs  117 

EXILE  FROM  GOD,  John  Hall  Wheelock  .  .  .168 
"  FEAR  NOT  THE  MENACE,"  Richard  Hovey  .  .  74 

FLIGHT,  THE,  Lloyd  Mifflin n3 

"  GATHER  US  IN,"  George  Matheson  .  .  .  .155 
GOD  IN  MY  GARDEN,  Thomas  Edward  Brown  .  .  75 
GREAT  ADVENTURE,  THE,  Major  Kendall  Banning  .  141 
HE  FELL  AMONG  THIEVES,  Sir  Henry  Newbolt  .  .  24 
"  HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP,"  Major  A.  B. 

Paterson 113 

"  HE  WHOM  A  DREAM  HATH  POSSESSED,"  Shae- 

mas  O'Sheel 86 

HERACLITUS,  William  Johnson  Cory 132 

HILLS  OF  REST,  THE,  Albert  Bigelow  Paine  .  .  .114 
"  HINC  NOSTRJE  LACRIM.&,"  Don  C.  Seitz  .  .  .134 
HIS  OWNE  EPITAPH,  Francois  Villon,  translated  by 

Wilfrid  Thorley n3 

HUNGER,  Gamaliel  Bradford 53 

HUSH  YOUR  PRAYERS,  Conal  O'Riordan  (Norreys 

Council,  pseud.) 4 


CONTENTS  xix 


HYMN  OF  EMPEDOCLES,  Matthew  Arnold  ...  63 
I  ACCEPT,  Harold  Trowbridge  Pulsifer  ....  3 
"I  SHALL  NOT  SCORN  MY  GRAVE,"  Sir  Lewis 

Morris 45 

IF  THIS  WERE  FAITH,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  .  .  72 

IMMORTALITY,  Joseph  Jefferson 157 

"  IO  VICTIS,"  William  Wetmore  Story  .  .  .  .121 
JESUS  THE  CARPENTER,  Catherine  C.  Liddell  .  .  82 

KASIDAH,  THE,  Sir  Richard  Burton 108 

KRITERION,  Eugene  F.  Ware 102 

LAST  APPEAL,  A,  Frederic  William  Henry  Myers  .  .  69 
LAST  CAMP-FIRE,  THE,  Sharlot  M.  Hall  ...  58 
LAST  TOURNEY,  THE,  Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water.  .  7 
LAUGHING  PRAYER,  THE,  Louise  Driscoll  ...  55 

LIE,  THE,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 39 

LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD,  THE,  Rev.  John  W.  Chad- 
wick  172 

LITANY,  Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water 42 

LITTLE  WORK,  A,  George  Du  Maurier  ....  76 
LIVE  YOUR  LIFE  —  THEN  TAKE  YOUR  HAT,  Henry 

David  Thoreau 53 

LONGING,  Viktor  Rydberg,  translated  by  Charles  Whar- 

ton  Stork 1 1 

LOST  COMRADE,  THE,  Bliss  Carman  ....  44 
MABRY,  CAPTAIN  DALE,  TO,  Frederic  F.  Van  de 

Water 176 

MAKE  ME  NO  GRAVE,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs  .  .15 
MAKE  NO  DESPERATE  SEARCH  FOR  GOD,  John 

French  Wilson 81 

MAN'S  BARGAIN,  A,  G.  M.  Hort 5 

MAN'S  GUESS,  Elihu  Vedder 148 

MIMNERMUS  IN  CHURCH,  William  Johnson  Cory  .  91 
"MINE  THE  LIGHT  OF  SETTING  SUN,"  William 

Winter 171 


xx  CONTENTS 


MOVING  FINGER   WRITES,  THE,  Omar  Khayyam, 

translated  by  Edward  Fitzgerald 98 

MY  AIM,  G.  Linnaeus  Banks 69 

MY  OLD  COUNSELOR,  Gertrude  Hall      .      .      .      .149 

MYSTERY,  Jerome  B.  Bell 63 

NATION'S  FACE  UPTURNED,  A,  John  Bemer  Crosby  16 
NATURALIST  ON  A  JUNE  SUNDAY,  THE,  Leonora 

Speyer 49 

NAUGHTY  NELL,  Charles  Wharton  Stork  ....  30 
NIRVANA,  Rosamund  Marriott  Watson  ....  99 
"  NO  COWARD  SOUL  IS  MINE,"  Emily  Bronte  .  .159 

NOTHINGNESS,  Owen  Meredith 103 

ONE  FIGHT  MORE,  Robert  Browning  ....  8 
ONE  PATH,  William  Alexander  Percy  .  .  .  .  101 
ONLY  LAUGHTER  IS  SURE,  Will  H.  Ogilvie  ...  62 

PAGAN,  THE,  Rose  Henderson 83 

PAINTING,  THE,  Dana  Burnet 149 

PASSAGE  TO  INDIA,  Walt  Whitman         .      .      .      .151 

PASSING  OF  OLD  TRINITY,  Anonymous       .      .      .169 
PEACE  ON  EARTH,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson      .      .     26 
PHANTOM  CARAVAN,  THE,  Omar  Khayyam,  trans- 
lated by  Edward  Fitzgerald     .......     97 

PIPES  O'  GORDON'S  MEN,  THE,  J.  Scott  Glasgow  .  128 

PIPPA'S  SONG,  Robert  Browning 1 66 

PRAYER   AMID  FLAMES,  Verner  von   Heidenstam, 

translated  by  Charles  Wharton  Stork  .  .  .  .154 
PRAYER  FOR  PAIN,  John  G.  Neihardt  ....  4 
PRAYER  OF  A  POET  TO  GOD,  Joseph  Bernard 

Rethy 166 

PROBLEM,  THE,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson    ....     94 

QUESTION,  A,  Elihu  Vedder 119 

RELIGION,  Paul  Kester 154 

REQUIEM,  Major  Kendall  Banning 1 6 

ROOM  FOR  A  SOLDIER!  Thomas  William  Parsons    .  143 


CONTENTS  xxi 


RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM,  THE,  translated  by 

Edward  Fitzgerald 97,  98 

"  SAY  NOT  THE  STRUGGLE  NAUGHT  AVAILETH," 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough 90 

SCEPTICS,  THE,  Bliss  Carman 120 

SCIENTIST  SPEAKS,  THE,  Charles  Henry  Mackintosh  92 
SECOND  CRUCIFIXION,  THE,  Richard  Le  Gallienne  .161 

SEEKER,  THE,  Don  Marquis 78 

SONG  OF  THE  UNIVERSAL,  Walt  Whitman.  .  .175 
STARS  IN  THE  MIST,  Will  H.  Ogilvie  .  .  .  .100 
SUN-WORSHIPERS,  THE,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs  .  68 

TEARS,  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 163 

"  THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US,"  Words- 
worth        38 

"  THERE  IS  NO  DEATH,"  John  L.  McCreery  .  .  .172 
THROUGH  NATURE  UP  TO  GOD,  William  Winter  .  74 
"  'T  IS  ALL  AND  NOTHING,"  Anonymous  .  .  .133 
TO  CAPTAIN  DALE  MABRY,  Frederic  F.  Van  de 

Water 176 

UNBELIEF,  Owen  Meredith 57 

"  UNTO  THE  LEAST  OF  THESE,"  Arthur  O'Shaugh- 

nessy .112 

UP-HILL,  Christina  Georgina  Rossetti 138 

VASTNESS,  Tennyson 36 

VILLON'S  REGRETS,  John  D.  Swain 122 

"  VISION  SPLENDID,  THE,"  Wordsworth      ...     89 

WAITING,  John  Burroughs 48 

WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG,  THE,  Eugene  F.  Ware  .  163 
WE  LODGE  HIM  IN  THE  MANGER,  Anonymous  .  71 

WHAT  IS  TO  COME,  W.  E.  Henley 49 

WHEN  CHARON  BECKONS,  Francis  Woolsey  Bronson         7 
WHEN  I  HAVE  GONE  WEIRD  WAYS,  John  G.  Neihardt    142 
WHEN  SHE  CAME  TO  GLORY,  Florence  Wilkinson 
Evans 131 


xxii  CONTENTS 


"  WHEN  THE  TIME  FOR  PARTING  COMES,"  Doro- 
thea Lawrance  Mann        116 

WINE  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM,  Eugene  Lee-Hamilton    .     94 

WISH,  THE,  Tennyson 159 

WITH  THE  TIDE,  Edith  Wharton 139 

"  WITH  WHOM  IS  NO  VARIABLENESS,  NEITHER 

SHADOW  OF  TURNING,"  Arthur  Hugh  Clough.       .  165 
WORSHIP,  Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water  ....       ,28 


SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


I  ACCEPT 

I  shall  go  out  as  all  men  go, 
Spent  flickers  in  a  mighty  wind, 
Then  I  shall  know  as  all  must  know, 
What  lies  the  great  gray  veil  behind. 

There  may  be  nothing  but  a  deep 
And  timeless  void  without  a  name 
Where  no  sun  hangs,  no  dead  stars  sleep, 
And  there  is  neither  night  nor  flame. 

There  may  be  meadows  there  and  hills, 
Mountains  and  plains  and  winds  that  blow, 
And  flowers  bending  over  rills 
Springing  from  an  eternal  snow. 

There  may  be  oceans  white  with  foam 
And  great  tall  ships  for  hungry  men 
Who  called  our  little  salt  seas  home, 
And  burn  to  launch  their  keels  again. 

There  may  be  voices  I  have  known, 
Cool  fingers  that  have  touched  my  hair; 
There  may  be  hearts  that  were  my  own  — 
Love  may  abide  forever  there. 

Who  knows?  Who  needs  to  understand 
If  there  be  shadows  there,  or  more  — 


SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


To  live  as  though  a  pleasant  land 
Lay  just  beyond  an  open  door? 

Harold  Trowbridge  Pulsifer 

HUSH  YOUR  PRAYERS 

Hush  your  prayers  —  't  is  no  saintly  soul 
Comes  fainting  back  from  the  fought  en  field ; 
Carry  me  forth  on  my  broken  shield ; 
Trumpet  and  drum  shall  my  requiem  yield  — 
Silence  the  bells  that  toll. 

Dig  no  hole  in  the  ground  for  me : 
Though  my  body  be  made  of  mould  and  must, 
Ne'er  in  the  earth  shall  my  dead  bones  rust; 
Give  my  corse  to  the  flame's  white  lust, 
And  sink  my  ashes  at  sea. 

Reeking  still  with  the  sweat  of  the  strife, 
Never  a  prayer  have  I  to  say, 
(My  lips  long  since  have  forgotten  the  way) 
Save  this:  "I  have  sorrowed  sore  in  my  day  — 
But  I  thank  Thee,  God,  for  my  life. " 

Norreys  Connell 

PRAYER  FOR  PAIN 

I  do  not  pray  for  peace  nor  ease, 
Nor  truce  from  sorrow : 
No  suppliant  on  servile  knees 
Begs  here  against  to-morrow  I 

Lean  flame  against  lean  flame  we  flash, 
O  Fates  that  meet  me  fair; 


A  MAN'S  BARGAIN 


Blue  steel  against  blue  steel  we  clash  — 
Lay  on,  and  I  shall  dare  I 

But  Thou  of  deeps  the  awful  Deep, 
Thou  breather  in  the  clay, 
Grant  this  my  only  prayer  —  Oh  keep 
My  soul  from  turning  gray  1 

For  until  now,  whatever  wrought 
Against  my  sweet  desires, 
My  days  were  smitten  harps  strung  taut, 
My  nights  were  slumbrous  lyres. 

And  howsoe'er  the  hard  blow  rang 
Upon  my  battered  shield, 
Some  lark-like,  soaring  spirit  sang 
Above  my  battle-field; 

And  through  my  soul  of  stormy  night 
The  zigzag  blue-flame  ran. 
I  asked  no  odds  —  I  fought  my  fight  — 
Events  against  a  man. 

But  now  —  at  last  —  the  gray  mist  chokes 
And  numbs  me.  Leave  me  pain ! 
Oh  let  me  feel  the  biting  strokes 
That  I  may  fight  again ! 

John  G.  Neihardt 

A  MAN'S  BARGAIN 

If  I  cry  out  for  fellowship, 
A  comrade's  voice,  a  comrade's  grip, 
A  hand  to  hold  me  when  I  slip, 
An  ear  to  heed  my  groan  — 


SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


Renew  that  dark  hour's  ecstasy ! 
When  all  Thy  waves  went  over  me, 
And  Thou  and  I,  with  none  to  see, 
Were  joined  in  fight  alone. 

If  I  demand  a  sheltered  space 
Set  for  me  in  the  battle-place, 
Where  I  at  times  could  turn  my  face, 

A  screened  and  welcomed  guest,  — 
Decree  my  soul  should  henceforth  cease 
From  its  wild  hankering  after  peace, 
And  rest  in  that  which  gives  release 

From  the  desire  for  rest. 

A  I  for  final  goal  should  ask  — 
Some  meaning  for  the  long  day's  task, 
Some  ripened  field  that  yet  may  bask, 

Secure  from  hurricane,  — 
Point  to  Thy  locust-eaten  sheaves  — 
The  burnt-out  stars,  the  still-born  leaves ! 
And  by  the  Toil  no  hope  retrieves 
Nerve  me  to  toil  again. 

So,  to  Thy  hard,  propitious  skies 
Shall  praise  go  up  like  sacrifice, 
And  all  the  will  within  me  rise, 

Applauding  at  Thy  word : 
Thou,  in  the  Glory,  jasper-walled, 
By  no  reproach  of  mine  be  galled: 
And  I,  among  my  kind,  be  called 

The  man  whose  prayers  are  heard. 

G.  M.  Hort 


WHEN  CHARON  BECKONS 


THE  LAST  TOURNEY 

I  shall  go  forth  one  day  to  joust  with  death; 

The  brittle  little  chains  that  hold  me  tied 

To  rusted  hopes,  to  visions  cracked  and  dried, 

Shall  break,  and  I  shall  hear  the  trumpet's  breath 

Go  clamoring  across  the  barren  heath, 

And  for  a  flaming  moment  I  shall  ride 

The  lists'  brief  course  to  meet  the  Undefied  — 

And  take  the  blow  that  I  shall  fall  beneath. 

Each  day  I  make  this  single  fervent  prayer : 

May  then  the  blood  of  Bayard  be  my  own ; 

May  I  ride  hard  and  straight  and  smite  him  square, 

And  in  a  clash  of  arms  be  overthrown; 

And  as  I  fall  hear  through  the  evening  air 

The  distant  horn  of  Roland,  faintly  blown. 

Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water 


WHEN  CHARON  BECKONS 

When  Charon  beckons  me  and  marks  my  place 
Within  his  barge,  where  whimpering  souls  are 

pressed 

So  close  together  that  the  damned  and  blessed 
Seem  one  vague  lump  of  blasphemy  and  grace ; 
When  fearlessly  my  eyes  explore  that  space 
Called  Heaven  or  Hell  by  some,  by  others  Rest, 
I  '11  mock  the  gasps  of  every  awe-struck  guest 
And  turn  toward  that  shore  a  tranquil  face. 

For  when  that  hour  comes,  as  come  it  will, 
My  lips  shall  rim  the  cup  of  life  to  quaff 


SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


The  bitter-sweetish  dregs  —  I  shall  not  spill 

One  solitary  drop  —  and  then  I  '11  laugh 
And  lilt  a  sonnet  with  my  dying  breath 
And  cram  a  quatrain  'twixt  the  teeth  of  Death. 
Francis  Woolsey  Bronson 

ONE  FIGHT  MORE 

Fear  death?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attain'd, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gain'd, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 

I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  for- 
bore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute  's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 


BEFORE  ACTION 


Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain. 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 

Robert  Browning 

BEFORE  ACTION 

By  all  the  glories  of  the  day, 
And  the  cool  evening's  benison : 
By  the  last  sunset  touch  that  lay 
Upon  the  hills  when  day  was  done: 
By  beauty  lavishly  outpoured, 
And  blessings  carelessly  received, 
By  all  the  days  that  I  have  lived  — 
Make  me  a  soldier,  Lord. 

By  all  of  all  men's  hopes  and  fears, 
And  all  the  wonders  poets  sing, 
The  laughter  of  unclouded  years, 
And  every  sad  and  lovely  thing: 
By  the  romantic  ages  stored 
With  high  endeavour  that  was  his, 
By  all  his  mad  catastrophes  — 
Make  me  a  man,  O  Lord. 

I,  that  on  my  familiar  hill 
Saw  with  uncomprehending  eyes 
A  hundred  of  Thy  sunsets  spill 
Their  fresh  and  sanguine  sacrifice, 
Ere  the  sun  swings  his  noonday  sword 
Must  say  good-bye  to  all  of  this :  — 
By  all  delights  that  I  shall  miss  — 
Help  me  to  die,  O  Lord. 

Lieut.  W.  N.  Hodgson 


io  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

"DIE,  DRIVEN  AGAINST  THE  WALL" 

A  man  said  unto  his  Angel: 
"  My  spirits  are  fallen  low, 
And  I  cannot  carry  this  battle: 
O  brother !  where  might  I  go? 

"The  terrible  Kings  are  on  me 
With  spears  that  are  deadly  bright; 
Against  me  so  from  the  cradle 
Do  fate  and  my  fathers  fight. " 

Then  said  to  the  man  his  Angel: 
"Thou  wavering,  witless  soul, 
Back  to  the  ranks !  What  matter 
To  win  or  to  lose  the  whole, 

"As  judged  by  the  little  judges 
Who  hearken  not  well,  nor  see? 
Not  thus,  by  the  outer  issue, 
The  Wise  shall  interpret  thee. 

"Thy  will  is  the  sovereign  measure 
And  only  event  of  things : 
The  puniest  heart,  defying, 
Were  stronger  than  all  these  Kings. 

"Though  out  of  the  past  they  gather, 
Mind's  Doubt  and  Bodily  Pain, 
And  pallid  Thirst  of  the  Spirit 
That  is  kin  to  the  other  twain, 

"And  Grief,  in  a  cloud  of  banners, 
And  ringletted  Vain  Desires, 


LONGING  ii 


And  Vice  with  the  spoils  upon  him 
Of  thee  and  thy  beaten  sires,  — 

"While  Kings  of  eternal  evil 
Yet  darken  the  hills  about, 
Thy  part  is  with  broken  saber 
To  rise  on  the  last  redoubt ; 

"To  fear  not  sensible  failure, 
Nor  covet  the  game  at  all, 
But  fighting,  fighting,  fighting, 
Die,  driven  against  the  wall ! " 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney 


LONGING 

He  longs  with  a  tireless  yearning, 
Still  seeking,  wandering,  turning 
At  all  times  and  everywhere, 
The  sought-for  goal  receding, 
Flitting,  enticing,  leading 
With  shifting  likeness  fair. 

A  nodding  flower  of  azure 
Above  the  field's  ripe  treasure 
First  lures  the  wanderer  on ; 
But  when  he  would  stoop  to  pick  it, 
It  sinks  in  the  billowy  thicket 
Of  rye-blades  and  is  gone. 

A  banner  all  golden-rifted, 
That  spirit  hands  have  lifted, 


12  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

On  sunset  towers  upborne, 
An  echo  resounding  faintly 
That's  blown  from  an  old  and  quaintly- 
Wrought  silver  legend-horn. 

An  organ-rapture  outpouring 
From  some  great  cathedral  soaring 
'Mid  streets  where  visions  dwell; 
The  blow  of  a  hammer  thund'rous 
When  angels  rear  a  wondrous 
Dream-lovely  citadel. 

A  sighing  of  ocean  surges 
When  dawn's  first  wave  emerges 
On  night's  pale  galaxy,  — 
He  listens  and  looks  with  yearning, 
Still  this  way  and  that  way  turning 
To  find  what  it  may  be. 

A  sea  to  which  years  run  lightly, 
A  river  that  mirrors  brightly 
The  Spring  and  its  beauties  rare, 
Beside  whose  waters  haunted 
Two  mortals  languish  enchanted 
And  see  but  each  other  there. 

The  river  hastes  from  the  flowers 
To  Autumn's  golden  bowers, 
And  whirls  the  dry  leaves  they  wore 
To  Ocean,  the  dark  Unbounded, 
The  wanderer  staring  astounded, 
Asks:  "What  of  the  farther  shore?" 


THE  COLLAR  13 


Perhaps  his  desire  is  bended 
On  something  uncomprehended, 
Which  no  man  may  comprehend; 
But  he  must  ever  be  yearning, 
Must  ever  be  wandering,  turning, 
And  seeking  it  without  end. 

And  should  he  reach  World's  Ending, 
With  no  road  further  tending, 
The  border  of  Nothingness,  — 
He'd  bend  him  over  the  steep  there 
And  gaze  into  the  deep  there 
With  straining-eyed  distress. 

And  leaning  over  the  steep  there, 
He  'd  cry  into  the  deep  there,  — 
That  echoless,  vast  Untrod,  — 
And  onward  the  shout  should  go  where 
Is  naught  but  the  void  of  Nowhere, 
Go  ringing  through  Chaos:  "God!" 

From  the  Swedish  of  Viktor  Rydberg 
Translated  by  Charles  Whar Ion  Stork 

THE  COLLAR 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cried,  "No  more; 

I  will  abroad. 

What !  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free ;  free  as  the  road, 
Loose  as  the  wind,  as  large  as  store. 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  blood  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordial  fruit? 


"  Sure  there  was  wine, 
Before  my  sighs  did  dry  it;  there  was  corn 

Before  my  tears  did  drown  it; 
Is  the  year  only  lost  to  me? 

Have  I  no  bays  to  crown  it, 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay?  all  blasted, 

All  wasted? 

Not  so,  my  heart;  but  there  is  fruit, 
And  thou  hast  hands. 

"Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures;  leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not;  forsake  thy  cage, 

Thy  rope  of  sands 
Which  petty  thoughts  have  made;   and  made  to 

thee   " 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law, 
While  thou  didst  wink  and  wouldst  not  see. 

"Away!  take  heed; 
I  will  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's-head  there,  tie  up  thy  fears ; 

He  that  forbears 
To  suit  and  serve  his  need 

Deserves  his  load." 
But  as  I  raved  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wild 

At  every  word, 

Methought  I  heard  one  calling,  "Child!" 
And  I  replied,  "My  Lord!" 

George  Herbert 


MAKE  ME  NO  GRAVE  15 


MAKE  ME  NO  GRAVE 

Make  me  no  grave  within  that  quiet  place 

Where  friends  shall  sadly  view  the  grassy  mound, 

Politely  solemn  for  a  little  space, 
As  though  the  spirit  slept  beneath  the  ground. 

For  me  no  sorrow,  nor  the  hopeless  tear; 

No  chant,  no  prayer,  no  tender  eulogy : 
I  may  be  laughing  with  the  gods  —  while  here 

You  weep  alone.  Then  make  no  grave  for  me. 

But-'lay  me  where  the  pines,  austere  and  tall, 
Sing  in  the  wind  that  sweeps  across  the  West: 

Where  night,  imperious,  sets  her  coronal 
Of  silver  stars  upon  the  mountain  crest. 

Where  dawn,  rejoicing,  rises  from  the  deep, 
And  Life,  rejoicing,  rises  with  the  dawn: 

Mark  not  the  spot  upon  the  sunny  steep, 
For  with  the  morning  light  I  shall  be  gone. 

Far  trails  await  me;  valleys  vast  and  still, 

Vistas  undreamed-of,  canon-guarded  streams, 

Lowland  and  range,  fair  meadow,  flower-girt  hill, 
Forests  enchanted,  filled  with  magic  dreams. 

And  I  shall  find  brave  comrades  on  the  way: 
None  shall  be  lonely  in  adventuring, 

For  each  a  chosen  task  to  round  the  day, 
New  glories  to  amaze,  new  songs  to  sing. 

Loud  swells  the  wind  along  the  mountain-side, 
High  burns  the  sun,  unfettered  swings  the  sea, 


16  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Clear  gleam  the  trails  whereon  the  vanished  ride, 
Life  calls  to  lif e :  then  make  no  grave  for  me ! 
Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 

REQUIEM 

When  I  am  dead,  pray  me  no  prayers; 

Intone  no  mummer's  rhyme, 
Nor  let  the  surpliced  gentry  ply 

Their  priestly  pantomime. 
Return,  O  God,  my  errant  flesh 

Back  to  my  mother  earth, 
Wherein  my  dust  may  serve  again,  — 

—  God  will,  at  Spring's  rebirth. 
Send  back  my  dreams  unto  the  hills 

Whence,  on  the  winds,  they  came; 
Let  strong,  my  passions,  seek  their  own  — 

Flame  back  to  quivering  flame  I 
Into  Thy  hands  return  that  love 

Men  call  the  soul  of  me  — 
And  give  my  spirit  back  to  the  indomitable  sea. 
Major  Kendall  Banning 

A  NATION'S  FACE  UPTURNED 
October  4,  1914 

The  leader  of  our  nation  bids  us  pray; 

He  bids  us  pray  that  alien  wars  shall  cease ; 

He  bids  us  pray 

All  on  one  day  — 
To  pray,  the  mass  of  all  of  us  —  for  peace. 

We're  not  a  praying  nation,  in  the  main; 
We  list,  in  mass,  toward  shallow-rooted  dare; 


A  NATION'S  FACE  UPTURNED         17 

And  yet  his  words 
Have  moved  our  herds 
Of  bold  and  cynic  hearts  to  pristine  prayer ! 

No  race  are  we  —  yet  race  of  races  made; 
Careless,  impatient,  and  each  day  rebrained; 

And  still  the  core 

Of  our  heart  has  more 
Of  reverence  than  ever  yet  has  drained. 

We  are  not  skilled  in  prayer  —  nor  know  the  form 
That  shall  befit  the  crisis  of  our  kin 

Where'er  they  bide ; 

And  yet  he  cried 
Not  vainly;  for  we  sense  the  smell  of  sin; 

And  though  we  do  not  pray  to  sate  the  code, 
We  pray  in  euphony  of  honest  hearts; 

Our  stumbling  word 

Will  yet  be  heard 
Above  the  rattle  of  the  armored  carts. 

For  know  we  that  a  prayer  is  but  a  wish 
From  heart  so  deep  that  rhetoric's  poor  plumb 

Falls  short,  bereft 

Of  use;  but  left  — 
God  finds  the  music  of  the  hope  born  dumb. 

In  the  tongue  of  every  sufferer  shall  we  pray  — 
With  bungled,  mumbled  language  hesitant; 

But  more  't  will  mean 

On  God  to  lean 
With  such  than  with  the  best  the  poets  grant. 


i8  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

And  some  will  name  the  god  they  seek, 

And  some  will  limn  his  face ! 

And  some  will  scar  his  thought  of  them 

By  hedging  'round  his  place; 

And  some  will  fear  the  god  they  speak, 

And  some  will  say  "My  Brother  — " 

And  some  will  say  "My  Father  dear  — " 

And  some,  this,  that  or  other; 

And  every  kind  of  god  they  hail 

Will  smile,  and  take  their  message, 

And  carry  it  to  the  God  of  gods  — 

You  see  what  small  things  presage? 

As  a  fleck  of  dust  on  an  ocean  crest 
From  the  deck  of  a  scoured  yacht 
Will  look  this  earth,  minute,  of  ours 
To  the  God  of  gods  as  He  turns  His  face, 
'Mid  the  woven  swirls  of  all  His  worlds, 
In  the  whir  of  His  frozen  space  — 

And  yet  will  He  heed;  and  He  will  say, 
"  What  do  my  people  wish  to-day? 
What  is  their  debt  they  cannot  pay? 
Let  mine  own  ear  discern  the  hum 
Of  their  discord:  I  bid  them  come." 

And  then,  obscure  as  a  gnat  at  night, 

Shall  we  tell  THE  GOD  of  our  brothers'  plight: 

And  this  our  blurted  prayer:  — 

"Fools  they  may  be  to  fools  have  named 

As  masters  of  men  —  whose  rule  has  maimed 


A  NATION'S  FACE  UPTURNED         19 

The  bravest  they  had  of  muscle  and  sold  — 
Yet  we  forgive  their  folly  1 

"They  have  exalted  as  Lords  of  Earth 
The  helmets  small,  and  the  wide  of  girth  — 
They  took  the  road  and  they  've  paid  the  toll  — 
And  there's  no  rebate  on  folly. 

"And  now  the  mesh  they  have  woven  well 
Is  snaring  them  and  their  kin  to  hell. 
For  setting  the  spear  above  the  poll  — 
Lord  God,  condone  their  folly  1 

"We  speak  not  of  ourselves  at  all, 
Lest  we  seek  to  exalt  ourselves  —  and  fall; 
'T  would  not  be  true  if  we  should  state 
That  we  alone  know  Thee. 

"But,  seeing  our  brothers  in  shrapnel  hail  — 
Stung  by  the  pang  of  their  children's  wail  — 
Scenting  the  skunk  at  the  palace  gate  — 
We  fear  they  have  forgotten ;  — 

"  Our  brothers  are  drunk  with  the  taste  of  blood, 
Their  brains  are  sprayed  with  the  sanguine  flood  — 
Impregnate  them  with  a  hate  for  hate  — 
We  pray  Thee,  Lord ! 

"  Teach  Thou  them  to  love  but  Love  — 
Guide  their  baffled  brains  above  — 
Turn  their  hands  to  the  worthy  wheat  — 
For  their  sake,  Lord ! 


20  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

"  Map  for  the  kings  their  ending  path  — 
Touch  their  tongues  in  Thy  cup  of  wrath  •— 
Flash  in  their  eyes  the  judgment  seat 
For  the  kings'  souls'  sake,  O  Lord ! 

"'Lords  of  War'  look  very  small; 
Bid  Thou  them  act  not  at  all  — 
Bid  Thou  them  reject  the  pall  — 
Bid  Thou  them  avert  the  fall 
By  acceptance  of  Thy  call  — 
We  pray  Thee,  Lord ! 

"And  if  our  hopes  be  not  too  great  — 
And  since  Thou  'rt  kind  enough  to  wait 
For  us  to  speak  our  plea  devout  — 

(We  thank  Thee,  Lord !)  — 

.  i( 

"Let  us  ask,  for  ourselves  alone, 
A  word  of  cheer,  to  still  our  moan  — 
We  mean  so  well  —  but  so  much  doubt 
What  is  Thy  will  - 

"  We  feel  so  sure  Thou  soon  wilt  curb  — • 
From  Teuton  lord  to  humble  Serb, 
From  Saxon  hull  to  Slavic  knout  — 
Thy  flouting,  Lord. 

"That  it  is  hard  for  us  to  be 
As  patient  as  Thou  think'st  that  we 
(In  view  of  our  exempted  lives, 
Mayhap),  should  bide: 

"Dear  Lord,  the  gods  of  our  sects  have  failed; 
Facing  their  frowns  no  monarch  quailed ; 


A  COWBOY'S  PRAYER  21 

Our  gods  all  tried  to  do  the  right  — 
Our  gods  all  sought  to  stop  the  fight, 
But  lacked  the  might; 

"  So  now  They  come  with  us  to  THEE  — 
Our  gods  and  us,  on  doubled  knee  — 
Seeking  to  bathe  in  Thy  great  light, 
O,  God  of  gods ! 

"And  thus  we  pray  to  Thee,  Lord  God  — 
Craving  Thy  love  —  nor  fearing  Thy  rod  — 
Daring  to  face  Thee  from  our  hives  — 
We,  our  children  and  our  wives  — 
Craving  Thy  deserved  gyves  — 
Placing  in  Thy  hands  our  lives  — 

"We  pray  Thee,  Lord, 
To  guide  us  in  our  baffling  days  — 
Stay  us  in  our  swaying  ways  — 
Answer  as  our  hearts  have  cried  — • 

Stop  these  wars! 

Oh,  Lord  of  Peace!" 

John  Bemer  Crosby 

A  COWBOY'S  PRAYER 

0  Lord,  I've  never  lived  where  churches  grow. 
I  love  creation  better  as  it  stood 

That  day  You  finished  it  so  long  ago 

And  looked  upon  your  work  and  called  it  good. 

1  know  that  others  find  You  in  the  light 

That's  sifted  down  through  tinted  window-panes. 
And  yet  I  seem  to  feel  You  near  to-night 
In  this  dim,  quiet  starlight  on  the  plains. 


22  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  thank  You,  Lord,  that  I  am  placed  so  well, 

That  You  have  made  my  freedom  so  complete; 
That  I  'm  no  slave  of  whistle,  clock  or  bell, 

Nor  weak-eyed  prisoner  of  wall  and  street. 
Just  let  me  live  my  life  as  I've  begun 

And  give  me  work  that's  open  to  the  sky; 
Make  me  a  pardner  of  the  wind  and  sun, 

And  I  won't  ask  a  life  that's  soft  or  high. 

Let  me  be  easy  on  the  man  that's  down; 

Let  me  be  square  and  generous  with  all. 
I'm  careless  sometimes,  Lord,  when  I'm  in  town, 

But  never  let  'em  say  I'm  mean  or  small  1 
Make  me  as  big  and  open  as  the  plains, 

As  honest  as  the  hawse  between  my  knees, 
Clean  as  the  wind  that  blows  behind  the  rains, 

Free  as  the  hawk  that  circles  down  the  breeze. 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  sometimes  I  forget. 

You  know  about  the  reasons  that  are  hid. 
You  understand  the  things  that  gall  and  fret; 

You  know  me  better  than  my  mother  did. 
Just  keep  an  eye  on  all  that's  done  and  said 

And  right  me,  sometimes,  when  I  turn  aside, 
And  guide  me  on  the  long,  dim  trail  ahead 

That  stretches  upward  toward  the  Great  Divide. 

Badger  Clark 

"BECAUSE  I  HAVE  LOVED  LIFE" 

Because  I  have  loved  life,  I  shall  have  no  sorrow  to 

die. 
I  have  sent  up  my  gladness  on  wings,  to  be  lost  in 

the  blue  of  the  sky. 


"BECAUSE  I  HAVE  LOVED  LIFE"       23 

I  have  run  and  leaped  with  the  rain,  I  have  taken 

the  wind  to  my  breast. 
My  cheek  like  a  drowsy  child  to  the  face  of  the 

earth  I  have  pressed. 

Because  I  have  loved  life,  I  shall  have  no  sorrow  to 

die. 
I  have  kissed  young  Love  on  the  lips,  I  have  heard 

his  song  to  the  end. 
I  have  struck  my  hand  like  a  seal  in  the  loyal  hand 

of  a  friend. 
I  have  known  the  peace  of  heaven,  the  comfort  of 

work  done  well. 
I  have  longed  for  death  in  the  darkness  and  risen 

alive  out  of  hell. 

Because  I  have  loved  life,  I  shall  have  no  sorrow  to 

die. 
I  give  a  share  of  my  soul  to  the  world  v/here  my 

course  is  run. 
L»know  that  another  shall  finish  the  task  I  must 

leave  undone. 
I  know  that  no  flower,  no  flint  was  in  vain  on  the 

path  I  trod. 
As  one  looks  on  a  face  through  a  window,  through 

life  I  have  looked  on  God. 
Because  I  have  loved  life,  I  shall  have  no  sorrow  to 

die. 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 


24  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


HE  FELL  AMONG  THIEVES 

"Ye  have  robb'd,"  said  he,  "ye  have  slaughtered 

and  made  an  end; 

Take  your  ill-got  plunder,  and  bury  the  dead : 
What  will  ye  more  of  your  guest  and  sometime 

friend?" 
"Blood  for  our  blood,"  they  said. 

He  laugh'd :  "  If  one  may  settle  the  score  for  five, 
I  am  ready;  but  let  the  reckoning  stand  till 
day: 

I  have  loved  the  sunlight  as  dearly  as  any  alive." 
"You  shall  die  at  dawn,"  said  they. 

He  flung  his  empty  revolver  down  the  slope, 
He  climb'd  alone  to  the  Eastward  edge  of  the 
trees; 

All  night  long  in  a  dream  untroubled  of  hope 
He  brooded,  clasping  his  knees. 

He  did  not  hear  the  monotonous  roar  that  fills 
The  ravine  where  the  Yassin  river  sullenly  flows; 

He  did  not  see  the  starlight  on  the  Laspur  hills, 
Or  the  far  Afghan  snows. 

He  saw  the  April  noon  on  his  books  aglow, 
The  wistaria  trailing  in  at  the  window  wide; 

He  heard  his  father's  voice  from  the  terrace  below 
Calling  him  down  to  ride. 

He  saw  the  gray  little  church  across  the  park, 
The  mounds  that  hid  the  loved  and  honour'd 
dead; 


HE  FELL  AMONG  THIEVES  25 

The  Norman  arch,  the  chancel  softly  dark, 
The  brasses  black  and  red. 

He  saw  the  School-close,  sunny  and  green, 
The  runner  beside  him,  the  stand  by  the  para- 
pet wall, 

The  distant  tape,  and  the  crowd  roaring  between, 
His  own  name  over  all. 

He  saw  the  dark  wainscot  and  timber'd  roof, 
The  long  tables,  and  the  faces  merry  and  keen; 

The  College  Eight  and  their  trainer  dining  aloof, 
The  Dons  on  the  dais  serene. 

He  watch'd  the  liner's  stem  ploughing  the  foam, 
He  felt  her  trembling  speed  and  the  thrash  of 
her  screw; 

He  heard  the  passengers'  voices  talking  of  home, 
He  saw  the  flag  she  flew. 

And  now  it   was  dawn.  He  rose   strong  on  his 

feet, 

And  strode  to  his  ruin'd  camp  below  the  wt>od; 
He  drank  the   breath  of  the  morning  cool   and 

sweet: 
His  murderers  round  him  stood. 

Light  on  the  Laspur  hills  was  broadening  fast, 
The  blood-red  snow-peaks  chill'd  to  a  dazzling 
white ; 

He  turn'd,  and  saw  the  golden  circle  at  last, 
Cut  by  the  Eastern  height. 


26  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

"  O  glorious  Life,  Who  dwellest  in  earth  and  sun : 
I  have  lived,  I  praise  and  adore  Thee." 

A  sword  swept. 

Over  the  pass  the  voices  one  by  one 
Faded,  and  the  hill  slept. 

Sir  Henry  Newbolt 

PEACE  ON  EARTH 

He  took  a  frayed  hat  from  his  head, 
And  "Peace  on  Earth"  was  what  he  said. 
"  A  morsel  out  of  what  you  're  worth, 
And  there  we  have  it :  Peace  on  Earth. 
Not  much,  although  a  little  more 
Than  what  there  was  on  earth  before. 
I'm  as  you  see,  I'm  Ichabod,  — 
But  never  mind  the  ways  I've  trod; 
I'm  sober  now,  so  help  me  God!" 

I  could  not  pass  the  fellow  by: 
"Do  you  believe  in  God?"  said  I; 
"And  is  there  to  be  Peace  on  Earth?" 

"To-night  we  celebrate  the  birth," 

He  said,  "of  One  who  died  for  men; 

The  Son  of  God,  we  say.  What  then? 

Your  God,  or  mine?  I'd  make  you  laugh 

Were  I  to  tell  you  even  half 

That  I  have  learned  of  mine  to-day 

Where  yours  would  hardly  seem  to  stay. 

Could  He  but  follow  in  and  out 

Some  anthropoids  I  know  about, 

The  god  to  whom  you  may  have  prayed 

Might  see  a  world  He  never  made." 


PEACE  ON  EARTH  27 

"Your  words  are  flowing  full,"  said  I; 
"But  yet  they  give  me  no  reply; 
Your  fountain  might  as  well  be  dry." 

"A  wiser  One  than  you,  my  friend, 
Would  wait  and  hear  me  to  the  end ; 
And  for  his  eyes  a  light  would  shine 
Through  this  unpleasant  shell  of  mine 
That  in  your  fancy  makes  of  me 
A  Christmas  curiosity. 
All  right,  I  might  be  worse  than  that; 
And  you  might  now  be  lying  flat; 
I  might  have  done  it  from  behind, 
And  taken  what  there  was  to  find. 
Don't  worry,  for  I  'm  not  that  kind. 
«Do  I  believe  in  God?'  Is  that 
The  price  to-night  of  a  new  hat? 
Has  he  commanded  that  his  name 
Be  written  everywhere  the  same? 
Have  all  who  live  in  every  place 
Identified  his  hidden  face? 
Who  knows  but  he  may  like  as  well 
My  story  as  one  you  may  tell? 
And  if  he  show  me  there  be  Peace 
On  Earth,  as  there  be  fields  and  trees 
Outside  a  jail-yard,  am  I  wrong 
If  now  I  sing  him  a  new  song? 
Your  world  is  in  yourself,  my  friend, 
For  your  endurance  to  the  end ; 
And  all  the  Peace  there  is  on  Earth 
Is  faith  in  what  your  world  is  worth, 
And  saying,  without  any  lies, 
Your  world  could  not  be  otherwise. " 


28  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

"One  might  say  that  and  then  be  shot," 
I  told  him;  and  he  said:  "Why  not?" 
I  ceased,  and  gave  him  rather  more 
Than  he  was  counting  of  my  store. 

"And  since  I  have  it,  thanks  to  you, 
Don't  ask  me  what  I  mean  to  do," 
Said  he:  "Believe  that  even  I 
Would  rather  tell  the  truth  than  lie  — 
On  Christmas  Eve.  No  matter  why." 

His  unshaved,  educated  face, 

His  inextinguishable  grace, 

And  his  hard  smile,  are  with  me  still, 

Deplore  the  vision  as  I  will; 

For  whatsoever  he  be  at, 

So  droll  a  derelict  as  that 

Should  have  at  least  another  hat. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

WORSHIP 

I  think  that  God  might  hear  my  prayer, 
If  I  could  kneel  and  worship  where 
A  simple  folk  on  Sunday  use 
The  shallow  ranks  of  narrow  pews 
As  seats  that  audience  afford 
Before  an  almost-visioned  Lord. 
If  I  might  see  them  kneeling,  dressed 
In  strait  and  awkward  Sabbath  best, 
To  celebrate  His  ordained  day, 
I  almost  might  relearn  to  pray. 


WORSHIP  29 


I'd  like  to  watch  his  careful  tread 

Along  the  aisle,  red-carpeted; 

His  white  bow-tie,  his  rusty  frock  — 

Old  shepherd  of  a  failing  flock, 

Who  all  the  years  his  way  has  trod, 

One  hand  upon  the  arm  of  God ; 

To  see  him  in  the  pulpit  stand, 

And  beat  ths  time  with  withered  hand, 

And  smile  upon  us  as  we  raise 

Old  Hundred's  ancient  hymn  of  praise. 

Perhaps  his  stark  theology 
Would  fan  to  flame  no  spark  in  me. 
I  wonder  if,  to  hail  the  Throne, 
One  needs  a  sanctimonious  tone, 
And  must  each  plea  for  aid  propose 
In  words  that  issue  through  the  nose? 
I  doubt  if  heaven  greatly  savors 
Hymns  quite  so  full  of  flats  and  quavers; 
But  yet,  perhaps,  they  rise  far  higher 
Than  anthems  of  a  vested  choir. 

But  I  have  watched  the  sunlight  come, 
Across  the  long  prayer's  drone  and  hum, 
To  touch  a  crown  of  thin,  white  hair 
And  weave  a  golden  halo  there; 
Have  seen,  through  windows  open  wide, 
Broad  fields  where  bobolinks  abide; 
Have  seen  the  grasses  sway  and  glisten 
And  daisies  bow  their  heads  to  listen 
Beneath  a  tranquil  summer  sky  — 
And  heard  God's  footsteps  passing  by. 

Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water 


30  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

NAUGHTY  NELL 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door  of  Heaven 

And  the  knock  was  firm  and  light. 

St.  Peter  he  opened  the  window  grill 

And  looked  on  a  puzzling  sight : 

A  maiden  sweet  as  a  swaying  bough 

Of  apple-buds  pink  and  white. 

He  scratched  his  forehead  and  looked  again: 

No  doubt  but  the  girl  was  fair, 

She  lowered  the  lids  of  her  blue-bell  eyes 

With  a  half  impenitent  air, 

And  the  smile  that  lurked  in  her  pouting  lips 

Had  little  to  do  with  prayer. 

"Name?  "  he  inquired  in  formal  tones. 

"Nell  Bassett,"  the  answer  fell. 

"  If  you  please,  I  thought  I  might  come  and  knock 

Before  I  was  dragged  to  hell, 

Though  there's  small  use  looking  my  record  up, 

For  my  nickname  was  Naughty  Nell." 

St.  Peter  he  stretched  to  a  dusty  shelf 
And  hefted  a  volume  down, 
He  read  in  the  light  that  the  halo  shed 
From  the  bald  rim  of  his  crown: 
"Ah!  Bassett,  Eleanor,  nineteen-two, 
June  twentieth,  Dorking  town." 

He  scanned  her  over  the  edge  of  the  book, 
And  she  answered  him,  "  Yes,  that 's  I. 
I  've  never  done  anything  good,  I  know, 
But  I  did  n't  have  long  to  try. 


NAUGHTY  NELL  31 

I'd  always  meant  to  begin  some  day 
Before  I  came  to  die." 

"That's  odd,  for  I  find  you  lost  your  life 
In  the  fever  that  came  this  year 
Nursing  a  child  whose  mother  died 
While  the  rest  kept  away  in  fear. " 
"You  would  n't  have  had  me  let  it  starve, 
The  poor  little  lonely  dear!" 

"  You  were  the  girl  that  fought  Bill  Jenks 

When  he  came  home  drunk  one  night, 

And  his  wife  screamed  'Help!'  but  never  a  man 

Durst  enter  the  house  for  fright." 

"  Why,  who  was  gladder  of  that  than  Bill 

Next  day  when  his  head  was  right?  " 

"Be  still,  please,  Nell.  —  Your  case  is  clear, 
Your  faults  are  but  light  and  few; 
Here's  a  page  and  a  half  of  kindly  deeds 
That  your  short  life  found  to  do. 
I  need  not  hold  you  a  minute  more 
From  the  bliss  that  waits  for  you. " 

The  door  swung  wide,  and  a  sudden  glow 

Of  radiance  blossomed  out, 

The  air  was  rich  with  the  scent  of  myrrh, 

With  song  and  triumphal  shout; 

Yet  over  the  face  of  the  dazzled  girl 

Came  a  look  as  of  fear  and  doubt. 

"Please,  but  it's  all  a  mistake,  I'm  feared," 
She  stammered;  "I  was  n't  good. 


32  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  always  did  what  I  chose  to  do 
As  often  as  ever  I  could, 
I  never  moidered  and  vexed  myself 
The  way  I  was  told  I  should. 

"Are  you  sure  that  all  of  my  sins  are  down,  — 

The  time  that  I  ran  away 

From  prayers  with  Ned  into  Folsom  Wood 

And  tarried  there  all  the  day, 

And  he  kissed  my  lips  that  kissed  again 

By  the  streamside  as  we  lay?" 

"Whatever  was  sin  is  entered  here," 

Said  Peter,  and  smote  his  book, 

For  his  temper  was  short,  the  worthy  saint. 

But  when  he  had  cast  a  look 

At  the  trouble  that  shadowed  the  girl's  clear  eyes, 

All  anger  his  heart  forsook. 

"Please   help   me,"  she  faltered.    "I  know  it's 

wrong, 

But  I  feel  a  bit  naughty  still. 
I  want  to  frolic  and  race  and  dance, 
Not  sit  and  do  God's  will ; 
Will  there  anybody  like  me  be  there, 
Or  is  everyone  staid  and  chill?" 

Then  Peter  laughed  —  he  could  do  no  less  — 

"  Why,  Nell,  are  you  then  afraid 

That  Heaven  will  be  like  Dorking  town 

At  church  or  dress  parade, 

That  tongues  are  still  and  thoughts  are  chill  — 

And  everyone  dull  and  staid? 


NAUGHTY  NELL  33 

"The  beams  of  light  that  spread  on  earth, 

When  your  clean  spirit  shone, 

Were  darted  from  the  crystal  depth 

Of  the  Eternal  Throne. 

Hark  to  the  rapturous  shouts  of  praise 

To  Him  Who  sits  thereon ! 

"The  golden  voice  of  sympathy, 

The  gallant  din  of  mirth 

That  lust  and  pride  and  selfish  fear 

Have  deafened  upon  earth, 

All  wishes  flowering  beauty-wards 

That  drooped  of  old  in  dearth  — 

"All  these  win  free  as  purest  thought 

To  flame  aloft  in  heaven, 

All  oppositions  melt  away, 

The  rusted  chains  are  riven, 

A  vast  unending  festival 

To  joy,  to  joy  is  given  1" 

His  ancient,  youthful  voice  was  still, 

Too  weak  to  utter  more, 

And  Naughty  Nell  bowed  silently 

To  marvel  and  adore; 

Then,  calm  with  ecstasy,  she  rose 

And  passed  through  the  shining  door. 

Charles  Wharton  Stork 


34  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


CORONATION 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 

Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun; 
Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 

The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate,  unquestioned  then, 
A  beggar  went,  and  laughed:  "This  brings 

Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand; 

Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down  — 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou  have  of  me?"- 

The  beggar  turned,  and  pitying, 
Replied,  like  one  in  dream,  "  Of  thee, 

Nothing.  I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 

Shook  off  the  crown,  and  threw  it  by  — 

"  O  man,  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said, 
"A  greater  king  than  I." 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then, 
Went  king  and  beggar  hand  in  hand. 

Whispered  the  king,  "  Shall  I  know  when 
Before  His  throne  I  stand?" 

The  beggar  laughed.  Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 


A  POET  ENLISTS  35 

The  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced  — 
"This  is  his  presence,  now." 

At  the  king's  gate,  the  crafty  noon 

Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun; 
Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 

The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

"Ho  here!  Ho  there!  Has  no  man  seen 
The  king?"  The  cry  ran  to  and  fro; 

Beggar  and  king,  they  laughed,  I  ween, 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray; 

The  king  came  not.  They  called  him  dead; 
And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 

Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson 


A  POET  ENLISTS 

And  all  the  songs  that  I  might  sing  — 
Madness  to  risk  them  so,  you  say? 

How  is  it  such  a  certain  thing 
That  I  can  sing  them  if  I  stay? 

The  winds  of  God  are  past  control, 
They  answer  to  no  human  call, 

And  if  I  lose  my  living  soul 

That  is  —  for  me  —  the  end  of  all. 

Better  to  shout  one  last  great  song, 
I>ying  myself,  to  dying  men, 


36  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Than  crawl  the  bitter  years  along 
And  never  sing  again. 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

VASTNESS 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after 

many  a  vanish 'd  face, 
Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll  with  the 

dust  of  a  vanish'd  race. 

Raving  politics,  never  at  rest  —  as  this  poor  earth's 

pale  history  runs,  — 
What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the  gleam  of  a 

million  million  of  suns? 

Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side,  truthless 

violence  mourn'd  by  the  Wise, 
Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a  popular 

torrent  of  lies  upon  lies; 

Stately  purposes,  valor  in  battle,  glorious  annals  of 

army  and  fleet, 
Death  for  the  right  cause,  death  for  the  wrong 

cause,  trumpets  of  victory,  groans  of  defeat; 

Innocence  seeth'd  in  her  mother's  milk,  and  Char- 
ity setting  the  martyr  aflame; 

Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of  Freedom, 
and  recks  not  to  ruin  a  realm  in  her  name ; 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the  gloom  of 
doubts  that  darken  the  schools; 

Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand,  follow'd 
up  by  her  vassal  legion  of  fools ; 


VASTNESS  37 


Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with  her  spice 
and  her  vintage,  her  silk  and  her  corn ; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbors,  famishing  popu- 
lace, wharves  forlorn ; 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise;  gloom  of 

the  evening,  Life  at  a  close ; 
Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  downway  with 

her  flying  robe  and  her  poison'd  rose ; 

Pain,  that  has  crawl'd  from  the  corpse  of  Pleasure, 
a  worm  which  writhes  all  day,  and  at  night 

Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper,  and  stings 
him  back  to  the  curse  of  the  light ; 

Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded  harlots; 

honest  Poverty,  bare  to  the  bone; 
Opulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty;  Flattery  gilding 

the  rift  in  a  throne ; 

Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trumpet  a  jubi- 
lant challenge  to  Time  and  to  Fate; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on  all  the 
laurell'd  graves  of  the  Great; 

Love  for  the  maiden,  crown'd  with  marriage,  no  re- 
grets for  aught  that  has  been, 

Household,  happiness,  gracious  children,  debtless 
competence,  golden  mean; 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and  pigmy 

spites  of  the  village  spire; 
Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle,  and 

vows  that  are  snapp'd  in  a  moment  of  fire; 


38  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

He  that  has  liv'd  for  the  lust  of  a  minute,  and  died 
in  the  doing  it,  flesh  without  mind ; 

He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till  Self 
died  out  in  the  love  of  his  kind ; 

Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and  Winter,  and 
all  these  old  revolutions  of  earth ; 

All  new-old  revolutions  of  Empire  —  change  of  the 
tide  —  what  is  all  of  it  worth? 

What   the   philosophies,  all   the   sciences,  poesy, 

varying  voices  of  prayer? 
All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all  that  is  filthy 

with  all  that  is  fair? 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in  being  our 

own  corpse-coffins  at  last, 
Swallow'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence,  drown'd  in 

the  deeps  of  a  meaningless  Past? 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom,  or  a  mo- 
ment's anger  of  bees  in  their  hive?  — 

Peace,  let  it  be !  for  I  loved  him,  and  love  him  for 
ever:  the  dead  are  not  dead  —  but  alive. 

Tennyson 


"THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US" 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours. 

Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 


THE  LIE  39 

So  might  I  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Wordsworth 


EARTH  GETS  ITS  PRICE 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in; 
At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking : 

'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking; 
No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

James  Russell  Lowell 


THE  LIE 

Go,  Soul,  the  Body's  guest, 
Upon  a  thankless  arrant; 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best; 
The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant: 

Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 

And  give  the  World  the  lie. 

Say  to  the  Court,  it  glows 
And  shines  like  rotten  wood: 


40  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Say  to  the  Church,  it  shows 

What's  good,  and  doth  no  good: 
If  Court  and  Church  reply 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  Potentates,  they  live 
Acting  by  others'  action, 

Not  loved  unless  they  give, 
Not  strong  but  by  a  faction: 

If  Potentates  reply, 

Give  Potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 
That  manage  the  Estate, 

Their  purpose  is  ambition, 
Their  practice,  only  hate: 

And  if  they  once  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most, 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending. 

Who,  in  their  greatest  cost, 
Seek  nothing  but  commending: 

And  if  they  make  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  Zeal  it  wants  devotion; 

Tell  Love  it  is  but  lust; 
Tell  Time  it  is  but  motion; 

Tell  Flesh  it  is  but  dust: 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 


THE  LIE  41 

Tell  Age  it  daily  wasteth; 

Tell  Honor  how  it  alters ; 
Tell  Beauty  how  she  blasteth; 

Tell  Favor  how  it  falters : 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  Wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness; 

Tell  Wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness : 

And  when  they  do  reply, 

Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  Physic  of  her  boldness; 

Tell  Skill  it  is  pretension; 
Tell  Charity  of  coldness; 

Tell  Law  it  is  contention: 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  Fortune  of  her  blindness; 

Tell  Nature  of  decay; 
Tell  Friendship  of  unkindness; 

Tell  Justice  of  delay: 
And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  Arts  they  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming; 
Tell  Schools  they  want  profoundness, 

And  stand  too  much  on  seeming: 
If  Arts  and  Schools  reply, 
Give  Arts  and  Schools  the  lie. 


42  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Tell  Faith  it's  fled  the  City; 

Tell  how  the  Country  erreth, 
Tell  Manhood  shakes  off  pity; 

Tell  Virtue  least  pref erreth : 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing, 

Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing,  — 

Yet,  stab  at  thee  that  will, 

No  stab  the  soul  can  kill  1 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh 

LITANY 

Give  me  Thy  grace ; 

Not  for  the  shouting  assault  when  my  banner  ad- 
vances ; 
Not  for  the  thunder  of  hooves  and  the  tempest  of 

lances. 

Keep  Thou  my  face 
Calm  in  the  heart-breaking  crash  of  the  overturned 

dream. 
When  to  my  mouth  comes  the  sickening,  salt  taste 

of  fear, 
And  over  the  tumult  and  cries  of  the  vanquished  I 

hear 
The  hurrying  wings  of  the  Furies;  their  hideous 

scream  — 
Give  me  Thy  steadfastness  then,  O  God.  Give  me 

Thy  grace  1 


LITANY  43 

Give  me  Thy  mirth; 

Not  for  the  sun  and  the  sky  and  the  summer  wind's 
laughter, 

Not  for  the  meeting  of  friends  and  the  wine  that 
flows  after. 

But  when  the  earth 

Hardens  to  iron  and  the  winds  of  adversity  blow, 

When  the  past  walks,  a  terrible  ghost,  and  the  fu- 
ture is  vain,  — 

Give  me  Thy  bright  gift  of  laughter  to  flaunt  before 
pain; 

Give  me  Thy  smile  to  fling  stark  in  the  teeth  of  the 
foe; 

Give  me  the  flame  of  Thy  manhood,  God.  Give  me 
Thy  mirth. 

Hear  me,  O  Lord ! 

Teach  me  to  stand  on  my  feet  in  the  final  black 

hour; 
Turn  Thou  my   eyes  unafraid  to  the  oncoming 

power. 

Give  me  a  sword ! 
Grant  that  I  cry  for  no  shield  to  withstand  his  bleak 

blade, 
But  a  hilt  in  my  hand  and  an  edge  that  the  foeman 

may  feel; 
Let  me  pass  to  the  chime  and  the  chant  and  the 

clangor  of  steel, 
That  You  see  and  rejoice  in  the  soul  of  the  man  You 

have  made; 
This  is  my  prayer  to  You,  God  of  Men.  Hear  me,  O 

Lordl 

Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water 


44  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

THE  LOST  COMRADE 

Now  who  will  tell  me  aright 

The  way  my  lost  companion  went  in  the  night? 

My  vanished  comrade  who  passed  from  the  roofs  of 

men, 
And  will  not  come  again. 

I  have  wandered  up  and  down 
Through  all  the  streets  of  this  bright  and  busy  town, 
Yet  no  one  has  seen  a  trace  of  him  since  the  day 
He  silently  went  away. 

I  have  haunted  the  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  talked  with  foreigners  from  the   incoming 

ships, 
But  when  I  questioned  them  closely  about  my 

friend, 
They  seemed  not  to  comprehend. 

From  men  of  book-learning,  too, 
I  have  sought  knowledge,  confident  that  they  knew, 
But  when  I  inquired  simply  about  my  chum, 
They  glanced  at  me  and  were  dumb. 

I  have  entered  your  churches  of  stone, 

And  heard  discourse  about  God  and  the  throng 

'round  his  throne, 
But  the  preacher  knew  nothing  at  all,  when  I  broke 

in  with:  "Where?"  - 
And  the  people  could  only  stare. 

Ah,  no,  you  may  read  and  read, 

Pile  modern  heresy  upon  ancient  creed  1 


45 


But  for  all  your  study  you  know  no  more  than  I, 
Under  the  open  sky. 

So  —  't  is,  Back  to  the  Inn  for  me, 

Where  my  great  friend  and  I  were  happy  and  free. 

And  I  will  remember  his  beautiful  words  and  his 

ways, 
For  the  rest  of  my  days; 

How  eager  he  was  for  truth, 
Yet  never  scorned  the  good  things  of  his  youth  — - 
The  soul  of  gentleness  and  the  soul  of  love  I 
I  shall  be  wise  enough. 

Bliss  Carman 

"I  SHALL  NOT  SCORN  MY  GRAVE" 

Let  me  at  last  be  laid 

On  that  hillside  I  know  which  scans  the  vale, 

Beneath  the  thick  yews'  shade, 

For  shelter  when  the  rains  and  winds  prevail. 

It  cannot  be  the  eye 

Is  blinded  when  we  die, 

So  that  we  know  no  more  at  all 

The  dawn's  increase,  the  evening's  fall; 

Shut  up  within  a  mouldering  chest  of  wood 

Asleep,  and  careless  of  our  children's  good. 

Shall  I  not  feel  the  spring, 

The  yearly  resurrection  of  the  earth, 

Stir  thro'  each  sleeping  thing 

With  the  fair  throbbings  and  alarms  of  birth, 

Calling  at  its  own  hour 

On  folded  leaf  and  flower, 


46  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Calling  the  lamb,  the  lark,  the  bee, 
Calling  the  crocus  and  anemone, 
Calling  new  lustre  to  the  maiden's  eye, 
And  to  the  youth  love  and  ambition  high? 

Shall  I  no  more  admire 

The  winding  river  kiss  the  daisied  plain? 

Nor  see  the  dawn's  cold  fire  . 

Steal  downward  from  the  rosy  hills  again? 

Nor  watch  the  frowning  cloud, 

Sublime  with  mutterings  loud, 

Burst  on  the  vale,  nor  eves  of  gold, 

Nor  crescent  moons,  nor  starlights  cold, 

Nor  the  red  casements  glimmer  on  the  hill 

At  Yule-tides,  when  the  frozen  leas  are  still? 

Or,  should  my  children's  tread 

Through  Sabbath  twilights,  when  the  hymns  are 

done, 

Come  swiftly  overhead, 

Shall  no  sweet  quickening  through  my  bosom  run, 
Till  all  my  soul  exhale 
Into  the  primrose  pale, 
And  every  flower  which  springs  above 
Breathes  a  new  perfume  from  my  love; 
And  I  shall  throb,  and  stir,  and  thrill  beneath, 
With  a  pure  passion  stronger  far  than  death? 

Sweet  thought !  fair,  gracious  dream, 

Too  fair  and  fleeting  for  our  clearer  view ! 

How  should  our  reason  deem 

That  those  dear  souls,  who  sleep  beneath  the  blue, 


"I  SHALL  NOT  SCORN  MY  GRAVE"     47 

In  rayless  caverns  dim, 

'Mid  ocean  monsters  grim, 

Or  whitening  on  the  trackless  sand, 

Or  with  strange  corpses  on  each  hand 

In  battle-trench  or  city  graveyard  lie, 

Break  not  their  prison-bonds  till  time  shall  die? 

Nay,  't  is  not  so  indeed: 

With  the  last  fluttering  of  the  falling  bmeath 

The  clay-cold  form  doth  breed 

A  viewless  essence,  far  too  fine  for  death; 

And,  ere  one  voice  can  mourn, 

On  upward  pinions  borne, 

They  are  hidden,  they  are  hidden,  in  some  thin  air, 

Far  from  corruption,  far  from  care, 

Where  through  a  veil  they  view  their  former  scene, 

Only  a  little  touch'd  by  what  has  been. 

Touch'd  but  a  little ;  and  yet, 

Conscious  of  every  change  that  doth  befall, 

By  constant  change  beset, 

The  creatures  of  this  tiny  whirling  ball, 

Fill'd  with  a  higher  being, 

Dower'd  with  a  clearer  seeing, 

Risen  to  a  vaster  scheme  of  life, 

To  wider  joys  and  nobler  strife, 

Viewing  our  little  human  hopes  and  fears 

As  we  our  children's  fleeting  smiles  and  tears. 

Then,  whether  with  fire  they  burn 

This  dwelling-house  of  mine  when  I  am  fled, 

And  in  a  marble  urn 

My  ashes  rest  by  my  beloved  dead, 


48  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Or  in  the  sweet  cold  earth 
I  pass  from  death  to  birth, 
And  pay  kind  Nature's  life-long  debt 
In  heart's-ease  and  in  violet  — 
In  charnel-yard  or  hidden  ocean  wave> 
Where'er  I  lie,  I  shall  not  scorn  rny  grave. 
Sir  Lewis  Morris 

WAITING 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For,  lo !  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays, 
For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 

I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 
And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years ; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  has  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  height; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delight. 


NATURALIST  ON  A  JUNE  SUNDAY     49 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky; 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 

John  Burroughs 

WHAT  IS  TO  COME 

What*is  to  come  we  know  not.  But  we  know 
That  what  has  been  was  good  —  was  good  to  show, 
Better  to  hide,  and  best  of  all  to  bear. 
We  are  the  masters  of  the  days  that  were : 
We  have  lived,  we  have  loved,  we  have  suffered 
.  . .  even  so. 

Shall  we  not  take  the  ebb  who  had  the  flow? 
Life  was  our  friend.  Now,  if  it  be  our  foe  — 
E'en  though  it  spoil  and  break  us !  —  need  we  care 
What  is  to  come? 

Let  the  great  winds  their  worst  and  wildest  blow, 
Or  the  gold  weather  round  us  mellow  slow : 
We  have  fulfilled  ourselves,  and  we 'can  dare 
And  we  can  conquer,  though  we  may  not  share 
In  the  rich  quiet  of  the  afterglow 

What  is  to  come. 

W.  E.  Henley 

THE  NATURALIST  ON  A  JUNE  SUNDAY 

My  old  gardener  leans  on  his  hoe, 
Tells  me  the  way  that  green  things  grow; 
"Coin*  to  church?  Why,  no. 
All  nature's  church  enough  for  me!" 
Says  he. 


50  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

"Preachin*  o'  flower  and  choir  o'  bird, 

An'  the  wind  pas  sin'  the  plate  — 

Sweetest  service  that  ever  /  heard, 

That's  straight! 

Eternal  Rest? 

What  for,  friend? 

Gimme  a  swarm  o'  bees  to  tend, 

A  honey-makin',  world  without  end, 

That's  what  I'd  like  the  best! 

(Scoop  'em  right  up  an'  find  the  queen, 

They'd  not  sting  me  —  the  bees  ain't  mean!) 

"Heaven's  all  right! 

But  still  I  guess  I'll  kinder  miss 

The  Lady  Lunar-moth  at  night 

And  the  White  Wanderer  butterfly 

Crawlin'  out  of  its  chrysalis ! 

I  want  my  heaven  human  too, 

'Twixt  me  an'  you  — 

Why,  I'd  jus'  love  to  see 

A  chipmunk  hop  up  to  the  Lord 

An'  eat  right  out  o'  His  dread  Hand 

Same  as  it  does  to  me ! 

Eternity!   Eternity! 

Don't  it  sound  grand? 

But  say, 

What's  the  matter  with  to-day? 

Just  step  into  the  wood  an'  take  a  look ! 

Ain't  that  a  page  o'  teachin'  from  the  Holy  Book? 

'  He  that  hath  eyes  to  see 

An'  ears  to  hear'  — 

That's  good  enough  for  me! 

I  guess  God 's  pretty  near, 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE  51 

He  '11  understand,  /  know, 
Why  I  ain't  in  no  hurry  to  let  June  go!" 

My  old  gardener  turns  to  his  hoe, 
Helping  the  green  things  how  to  grow, 
"The  Missus  can  go  to  church  for  me! 
Amen!"  says  he. 

Leonora  Speyer 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

A  fire-mist  and  a  planet,  — 

A  crystal  and  a  cell,  — 
A  jellyfish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cave-men  dwell; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty, 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod,  — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite,  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tint  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high,  — 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  goldenrod,  — • 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea-beach, 
When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 

Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 
Come  welling  and  surging  in,  —  • 


52  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Come  from  the  mystic  ocean, 
Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod,  — 

Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 
And  others  call  it  God. 

A  picket  frozen  on  duty,  — 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood,  — 
Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock, 

And  Jesus  on  the  rood; 
And  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  plod,  — 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

William  Herbert  Carruth 


"AD  C<ELUM" 

At  the  Muezzin's  Call  for  prayer, 
The  kneeling  Faithful  thronged  the  square, 
And  on  Pushkara's  lofty  height 
The  dark  priest  chanted  Brahma's  might. 
Amid  a  monastery's  weeds 
An  old  Franciscan  told  his  beads; 
While  to  the  synagogue  there  came 
A  Jew,  to  praise  Jehovah's  name. 
The  one  great  God  looked  down  and  smiled 
And  counted  each  his  loving  child; 
For  Turk  and  Brahmin,  monk  and  Jew 
Had  reached  Him  through  the  gods  they  knew. 

Harry  Romaine 


LIVE  YOUR  LIFE  53 


HUNGER 

I've  been  a  hopeless  sinner  but  I  understand  a 
saint, 

Their  bend  of  weary  knees  and  their  contortions 
long  and  faint, 

And  the  endless  pricks  of  conscience,  like  a  hun- 
dred thousand  pins, 

A  real  perpetual  penance  for  imaginary  sins. 

I  love  to  wander  widely  but  I  understand  a  cell, 
Where  you  tell  and  tell  your  beads  because  you've 

nothing  else  to  tell, 
Where  the  crimson  joy  of  flesh,  with  all  its  wild, 

fantastic  tricks, 
Is  forgotten  in  the  blinding  glory  of  the  crucifix. 

I  cannot  speak  for  others  but  my  inmost  soul  is 

torn 

With  a  battle  of  desires  making  all  my  life  forlorn. 
There  are  moments  when  I  would  untread  the  paths 

that  I  have  trod. 

I'm  a  haunter  of  the  devil  but  I  hunger  after  God. 

Gamaliel  Bradford 


LIVE  YOUR  LIFE  —  THEN  TAKE  YOUR 
HAT 

Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house; 
Feeling  and  Thinking  propagate  the  sin 
By  an  unnatural  breeding  in  and  in. 
I  say,  Turn  it  outdoors, 
Into  the  moors. 


54  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  love  a  life  whose  plot  is  simple, 

And  does  not  thicken  with  every  pimple, 

A  soul  so  sound  no  sickly  conscience  binds  it, 

That  makes  the  universe  no  worse  than  't  finds  it. 

I  love  an  earnest  soul 

Whose  mighty  joy  and  sorrow 

Are  not  drowned  in  a  bowl, 

And  brought  to  life  to-morrow; 

That  lives  one  tragedy, 

And  not  seventy; 

A  conscience  worth  keeping, 

Laughing,  not  weeping; 

A  conscience  wise  and  steady, 

And  forever  ready ; 

Not  changing  with  events, 

Dealing  in  compliments; 

A  conscience  exercised  about 

Large  things,  where  one  may  doubt. 

I  love  a  soul  not  all  of  wood, 

Predestinated  to  be  good, 

But  true  to  the  backbone 

Unto  itself  alone, 

And  false  to  none ; 

Born  to  its  own  affairs, 

Its  own  joys  and  own  cares; 

By  whom  the  work  which  God  begun 

Is  finished,  and  not  undone; 

Taken  up  where  He  left  off, 

Whether  to  worship  or  to  scoff; 

If  not  good,  why  then  evil, 

If  not  good  god,  good  devil. 

Goodness !  —  you  hypocrite,  come  out  of  that, 

Live  your  life,  do  your  work,  then  take  your  hat. 


THE  LAUGHING  PRAYER  55 

I  have  no  patience  towards 
Such  conscientious  cowards. 
Give  me  simple  laboring  folk, 
Who  love  their  work, 
Whose  virtue  is  a  song 
To  cheer  God  along. 

Henry  David  Thoreau 

THE  LAUGHING  PRAYER 

The  sorry  prayers  go  up  to  God 

Day  after  weary  day, 
They  whimper  through  the  eternal  blue 

And  down  the  Milky  Way. 

Deaf  to  the  music  of  the  stars, 

The  children  of  desire, 
Beggars  before  the  Throne  of  God, 

They  wait  for  God  to  tire. 

The  proletariat  of  Heaven 
Swarmed  in  the  golden  street 

One  day  when  Michael's  host  came  by 
Up  to  the  Judgment  Seat. 

Above  the  heavenly  mansions 
Bright,  streaming  banners  flowed, 

While  cherubim  and  seraphim 
Were  crowding  in  the  road. 

And  then  a  little,  laughing  prayer 

Came  running  from  the  sky, 
Along  the  golden  gutters  where 

The  sorry  prayers  went  by. 


56  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

It  had  no  fear  of  anything, 

But  in  that  holy  place 
It  found  the  very  Throne  of  God 

And  smiled  up  in  His  face. 

Then  Michael  waited  in  the  road, 

For  Michael  understood, 
While  God  looked  on  the  laughing  prayer 

And  found  it  sweet  and  good. 

So  God  was  comforted.  He  said : 

"There  still  is  hope  for  men. 
One  man  prays  happily!"  And  so 

He  turned  to  care  again. 

Louise  Driscoll 

THE  COAST  OF  COURAGE 

O  Mighty  Lord  of  Trade's  high-running  sea, 
Grant  us  an  echo  of  that  distant  main, 
Beyond  dark  wastes  of  danger  to  attain 

The  Coast  of  Courage !  Strand  of  Bravery ! 

Grant  an  Assurance  and  a  Hope  more  free 
That  over  stiller  waters  we  may  gain 
At  length  a  vaster  vision,  not  in  vain, 

Of  Thine  eternal  Opportunity! 

Prepare  a  highway  in  this  wilderness 
Of  wanton  ways  of  traffic,  a  new  heart 
Of  love  and  law  and  Justice  in  the  Mart, 
A  loftier  view  of  Commerce,  limitless, 
That  sees  no  end  therein  Thou  would'st  not  bless, 
No  consummation  other  than  Thou  art ! 

Anonymous 


UNBELIEF  57 


UNBELIEF 

There  is  no  unbelief; 
Whoever  plants  a  seed  beneath  the  sod 
And  waits  to  see  it  push  away  the  clod  — 
He  trusts  in  God. 

Whoever  says  when  clouds  are  in  the  sky : 
"Be  patient,  heart;  light  breaketh  by  and  by," 
Trusts  the  Most  High. 

Whoever  sees  'neath  Winter's  field  of  snow 
The  silent  harvest  of  the  future  grow, 
God's  power  must  know. 

Whoever  lies  down  on  his  couch  to  sleep, 
Content  to  lock  each  sense  in  slumber  deep, 
Knows  God  will  keep. 

Whoever  says,  "To-morrow,"  "The  Unknown," 
"The  Future,"  trusts  the  Power  alone 
He  dares  disown. 

The  heart  that  looks  on  when  eyelids  close, 
And  dares  to  live  when  life  has  woes  — 
God's  comfort  knows. 

There  is  no  unbelief; 
And  day  by  day,  unconsciously, 
The  heart  lives  by  that  faith  the  lips  deny  — 
God  knoweth  why  I 

Owen  Meredith 


58  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


THE  LAST  CAMP-FIRE 

Scar  not  earth's  breast  that  I  may  have 
Somewhere  above  her  heart  a  grave; 
Mine  was  a  life  whose  swift  desire 
Bent  ever  less  to  dust  than  fire; 
Then  through  the  swift  white  path  of  flame 
Send  back  my  soul  to  whence  it  came; 
From  some  *gr eat  peak,  storm  challenging, 
My  death-fire  to  the  heavens  fling; 
The  rocks  my  altar,  and  above 
The  still  eyes  of  the  stars  I  love ; 
No  hymn,  save  as  the  midnight  wind 
Comes  whispering  to  seek  his  kind. 

Heap  high  the  logs  of  spruce  and  pine, 
Balsam  for  spices  and  for  wine; 
Brown  cones,  and  knots  a  golden  blur 
Of  hoarded  pitch,  more  sweet  than  myrrh; 
Cedar,  to  stream  across  the  dark 
Its  scented  embers  spark  on  spark; 
Long,  shaggy  boughs  of  juniper, 
And  silvery,  odorous  sheaves  of  fir ; 
Spice-wood,  to  die  in  incense  smoke 
Against  the  stubborn  roots  of  oak, 
Red  to  the  last  for  hate  or  love 
As  that  red  stubborn  heart  above. 

Watch  till  the  last  pale  ember  dies, 
Till  wan  and  low  the  dead  pyre  lies, 
Then  let  the  thin  white  ashes  blow 
To  all  earth's  winds  a  finer  snow; 


AFTER  DEATH  IN  ARABIA  59 

There  is  no  wind  of  hers  but  I 

Have  loved  it  as  it  whistled  by; 

No  leaf  whose  life  I  would  not  share, 

No  weed  that  is  not  some  way  fair; 

Hedge  not  my  dust  in  one  close  urn, 

It  is  to  these  I  would  return, — 

The  wild,  free  winds,  the  things  that  know 

No  master's  rule,  no  ordered  row, — 

To  be,  if  Nature  will,  at  length 
Part  of  some  great  tree's  noble  strength; 
Growth  of  the  grass;  to  live  anew 
In  many  a  wild-flower's  richer  hue ; 
Find  immortality,  indeed, 
In  ripened  heart  of  fruit  and  seed. 
Time  grants  not  any  man  redress 
Of  his  broad  law,  forgetfulness; 
I  parley  not  with  shaft  and  stone, 
Content  that  in  the  perfume  blown 
From  next  year's  hillsides  something  sweet 
And  mine,  shall  make  earth  more  complete. 

Sharlot  M.  Hall 


AFTER  DEATH  IN  ARABIA 

He  who  died  at  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  his  friends: 

Faithful  friends !  It  lies,  I  know, 
Pale  and  white  and  cold  as  snow; 
And  ye  say,  "Abdallah's  dead!" — 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  head. 


60  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  can  see  your  falling  tears, 
I  can  hear  your  sighs  and  prayers; 
Yet  I  smile  and  whisper  this, — 
"I  am  not  the  thing  you  kiss; 
Cease  your  tears,  and  let  it  lie; 
It  was  mine,  it  is  not  I." 

Sweet  friends !  What  the  women  lave 

For  its  last  bed  of  the  grave, 

Is  a  tent  which  I  am  quitting, 

Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 

Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last, 

Like  a  hawk  my  soul  hath  pass'd. 

Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room, — 

The  wearer,  not  the  garb,  —  the  plume 

Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bars 

Which  kept  him  from  these  splendid  stars. 

Loving  friends!  Be  wise,  and  dry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye, — • 
What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear. 
'T  is  an  empty  sea-shell,  —  one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  is  gone; 
The  shell  is  broken,  it  lies  there ; 
The  pearl,  the  all,  the  soul,  is  here. 
'T  is  an  earthen  jar,  whose  lid 
Allah  seal'd,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 
A  mind  that  lov'd  him;  let  it  lie! 
Let  the  shard  be  earth's  once  more, 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  his  store ! 


AFTER  DEATH  IN  ARABIA  61 

Allah  glorious !  Allah  good ! 
Now  thy  world  is  understood; 
Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends ; 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 
While  the  man  whom  ye  call  dead, 
In  unspoken  bliss,  instead, 
Lives  and  loves  you;  lost,  't  is  true, 
By  such  light  as  shines  for  you; 
But  in  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  unfulfill'd  felicity,— 
In  enlarging  paradise, 
Lives  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends!  Yet  not  farewell; 
Where  I  am,  ye,  too,  shall  dwell. 
I  am  gone  before  your  face, 
A  moment's  time,  a  little  space. 
When  ye  come  where  I  have  stepp'd 
Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept; 
Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught, 
That  here  is  all,  and  there  is  naught. 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain, — 
Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain ; 
Only  not  at  death,  —  for  death, 
Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life,  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 

Be  ye  certain  all  seems  love, 
View'd  from  Allah's  throne  above; 
Be  ye  stout  of  heart,  and  come 
Bravely  onward  to  your  home  I 


62  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

La  Allah  ilia  Allah!  yea! 

Thou  love  divine !  Thou  love  alway  1 

He  that  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave. 

Edwin  Arnold 


ONLY  LAUGHTER  IS  SURE 

Send  us  Laughter,  O  gods,  for  our  life  is   but 

vain ; 
We  are  bruised  by  its  rods,  we  are  galled  by  its 

chain. 

What  doth  patience  avail,  or  the  strength  to  endure 
In  the  fight  where  we  fail  ?  Only  Laughter  is  sure ! 

Faith  is  comrade  no  more.    Sorrow  sees  us  and 

nods. 
From  your  generous  store  give  us  Laughter,  O 

gods; 
That  with  sword  of  it  girt,  and  with  helm  of  it 

crowned, 
We  may  battle  unhurt,  we  may  wander  unbound ! 

Send  us  Laughter,  great  lords,  for  our  woes  are  too 

deep 
To  be  served  by  the  swords  save  of  Laughter  or 

Sleep  I 
Send  us  Laughter,  O  gods,  and  the  world  is  our 

own, 
From  the  cloud  to  the  clods,  from  the  cot  to  the 

throne  I 


HYMN  OF  EMPEDOCLES  63 

It  shall  soften  the  sting  of  the  whips  that  are 

whirled, 
And  a  balm  it  shall  bring  for  the  wounds  of  the 

world. 

It  shall  lighten  the  rods,  it  shall  cover  the  sore ; 
Send  us  Laughter,  O  gods,  for  our  armour  of  war  I 

W.  H,  Ogilvie 

MYSTERY 

What  is  this  mystery  that  men  call  death? 

My  friend  before  me  lies ;  in  all  save  breath 

He  seems  the  same  as  yesterday.  His  face 

So  like  to  life,  so  calm,  bears  not  a  trace 

Of  that  great  change  which  all  of  us  so  dread. 

I  gaze  on  him  and  say:  He  is  not  dead, 

But  sleeps;  and  soon  he  will  arise  and  take 

Me  by  the  hand,  I  know  he  will  awake 

And  smile  on  me  as  he  did  yesterday; 

And  he  will  have  some  gentle  word  to  say, 

Some  kindly  deed  to  do ;  for  loving  thought 

Was  warp  and  woof  of  which  his  life  was  wrought. 

He  is  not  dead.  Such  souls  forever  live 

In  boundless  measure  of  the  love  they  give. 

Jerome  B.  Bell 

HYMN  OF  EMPEDOCLES 

Is  it  so  small  a  thing 
To  have  enjoy'd  the  sun, 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 
To  have  loved,  to  have  thought,  to  have  done; 
To  have  advanced  true  friends,  and  beat  down  baf- 
fling foes; 


64  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

That  we  must  feign  a  bliss 
Of  doubtful  future  date, 
And  while  we  dream  on  this 
Lose  all  our  present  state, 
And  relegate  to  worlds  yet  distant  our  repose? 

Not  much,  I  know,  you  prize 
What  pleasures  may  be  had, 
Who  look  on  life  with  eyes 
Estranged,  like  mine,  and  sad: 
And  yet  the  village  churl  feels  the  truth  more 
than  you; 

Who's  loth  to  leave  this  life 
Which  to  him  little  yields : 
His  hard-task'd,  sunburnt  wife, 
His  of  ten-labour 'd  fields; 
The  boors  with  whom  he  talk'd,  the  country 
spots  he  knew. 

But  thou,  because  thou  hear'st 
Men  scoff  at  Heaven  and  Fate; 
Because  the  gods  thou  fear'st 
Fail  to  make  blest  thy  state, 
Tremblest,  and  wilt  not  dare  to  trust  the  joys 
there  are. 

I  say,  fear  not!  Life  still 
Leaves  human  effort  scope. 
But,  since  life  teems  with  ill, 
Nurse  no  extravagant  hope. 
Because  them  must  not  dream  thou  need'st 
not  then  despair. 

Matthew  Arnold 


THE  AGNOSTIC'S  CREED  65 


DESERVINGS 

This  is  the  height  of  our  deserts: 
A  little  pity  for  life's  hurts; 
A  little  rain,  a  little  sun, 
A  little  sleep  when  work  is  done. 

A  little  righteous  punishment, 
Less  for  our  deeds  than  their  intent; 
A  little  pardon  now  and  then, 
Because  we  are  but  struggling  men. 

A  little  light  to  show  the  way, 
A  little  guidance  where  we  stray; 
A  little  love  before  we  pass 
To  rest  beneath  the  kirkyard  grass. 

A  little  faith,  in  days  of  change, 
When  life  is  stark  and  bare  and  strange; 
A  solace  when  our  eyes  are  wet 
With  tears  of  longing  and  regret. 

True  it  is  that  we  cannot  claim 
Unmeasured  recompense  or  blame, 
Because  our  way  of  life  is  small: 
A  little  is  the  sum  of  all. 

Anonymous 

THE  AGNOSTIC'S  CREED 

At  last  I  have  ceased  repining,  at  last  I  accept  my 

fate; 
I  have  ceased  to  beat  at  the  Portal,  I  have  ceased  to 

knock  at  the  Gate ; 


66  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  have  ceased  to  work  at  the  Puzzle,  for  the  Secret 

has  ended  my  search, 
And  I  know  that  the  Key  is  entrusted  to  never  a 

creed  nor  church. 

They  have  threatened  with  lakes  of  fire,  they  have 

threatened  with  fetters  of  hell; 
They  have  offered  me  heights  of  heaven  with  their 

fields  of  asphodel; 
But  the  Threat  and  the  Bribe  are  useless  if  Reason 

be  strong  and  stout, 
And  an  honest  man  can  never  surrender  an  honest 

doubt. 

The  fables  of  hell  and  of  heaven  are  but  worn-out 
Christmas  toys, 

To  coax  or  to  bribe  or  to  frighten  the  grown-up 
girls  and  boys; 

I  have  ceased  to  be  an  infant,  I  have  traveled  be- 
yond their  span  — 

It  may  do  for  women  and  children,  but  'it  never  will 
do  for  a  man. 

They  are  all  alike,  these  churches :  Mohammedan, 

Christian,  Parsee; 
You  are  vile,  you  are  curst,  you  are  outcast,  if  you 

be  not  as  they  be; 
But  my  Reason  stands  against  them,  and  I  go  as  it 

bids  me  go; 
Its  commands  are  as  calls  of  a  trumpet,  and  I  follow 

for  weal  or  woe. 


THE  AGNOSTIC'S  CREED  67 

But  O!  it  is  often  cheerless,  and  O!  it  is  often 

chill, 
And  I  often  sigh  to  heaven  as  my  path  grows  steep 

and  still. 
I  have  left  behind  my  comrades,  with  their  prattle 

and  childish  noise ; 
My  boyhood  now  is  behind  me,  with  all  of  its 

broken  toys ! 

O!  that  God  of  gods  is  glorious,  the  emperor  of 

every  land ; 
He  carries  the  moon  and  the  planets  in  the  palm  of 

His  mighty  hand; 
He  is  girt  with  the  belt  of  Orion,  he  is  Lord  of  the 

suns  and  stars, 
A  wielder  of  constellations,  of  Canopus,  Arcturus 

and  Mars! 

I  believe  in  Love  and  Duty,  I  believe  in  the  True 

and  Just; 
I  believe  in  the  common  kinship  of  everything  born 

from  dust. 
I  hope  that  the  Right  will  triumph,  that  the  scep- 

tered  Wrong  will  fall. 
That  Death  will  at  last  be  defeated,  that  the  Grave 

will  not  end  all. 

I  believe  in  the  martyrs  and  heroes  who  have  died 

for  the  sake  of  Right ; 
And  I  promise,  like  them,  to  follow  in  my  Reason's 

faithful  light; 


68  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

If  my  Reason  errs  in  judgment,  I  but  honestly 

strive  as  I  can; 
If  a  God  decrees  my  downfall,  I  shall  stand  it  like  a 

man. 

Walter  Malone 

THE  SUN- WORSHIPERS 

The  trail  is  high  whereon  we  ride,  with  all  the 

world  below  to  see, 

The  cleft  of  canon,  sweep  of  range  and  winter- 
white  of  lonely  peak; 

Lean  foothold  on  the  mountain-side,  and  on,  be- 
yond, The  Mystery, 

The  unattained,  the  hidden  land  we  may  not  find, 
but  ever  seek. 

Content  were  vain.  Our  discontent,  divine,  forever 

urges  on 
Through  stress  and  danger,  scorned  or  shared, 

though  journey's  end  be  never  won: 
Say  you  our  days  are  vainly  spent  whose  eyes  have 

looked  upon  the  dawn 

From  high  Chilao's  morning  crest,  and  bathed 
our  faces  in  the  Sun? 

We  worship  not  what  men  have  made :  no  thing  so 

small  is  our  desire. 
The   little  words   of   men  that   die,   the   little 

thoughts  of  men  that  dream 
Shall  perish  in  their  utterance :  and  build  for  these 

an  altar  fire? 

Our  creed  is  written  in  the  sky,  our  song  in  the 
eternal  stream. 


MY  AIM  69 

We  journey  on  from  star  to  star,  nor  shall  we  find  a 

dwelling-place, 
Nor  yet  implore  surcease  from  toil:  to  be  and  to 

adore,  is  all: 
Beholding  dimly  from  afar  the  glory  of  the  Hidden 

Face, 

Our  worship  ever  our  reward,  the   Quest  our 
golden  coronal. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 


A  LAST  APPEAL 

0  somewhere,  somewhere,  God  unknown, 

Exist  and  be ! 

1  am  dying;  I  am  all  alone; 

I  must  have  thee ! 

God !  God !  my  sense,  my  soul,  my  all 

Die  sin  the  cry:  — 
Saw'st  thou  the  faint  star  flame  and  fall? 

Ah !  it  was  I. 

Frederic  William  Henry  Myers 


MY  AIM 

I  live  for  those  who  love  me,  whose  hearts  are  kind 

and  true, 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me,  and  awaits 

my  spirit  too; 
For  all  human  ties  that  bind  me,  for  the  task  by 

God  assigned  me; 
For  the  bright  hopes  yet  to  find  me  and  the  good 

that  I  can  do. 


70  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  live  to  learn  their  story  who  suffered  for  my 

sake; 

To  emulate  their  glory  and  follow  in  their  wake : 
Bards,  patriots,  martyrs,  sages,  the  heroic  of  all 

ages, 
Whose  deeds  crowd  history's  pages,  and  Time's 

great  volume  make. 

I  live  to  hold  communion  with  all  that  is  divine, 

To  feel  there  is  a  union  'twixt  nature's  heart  and 
mine; 

To  profit  by  affliction,  reap  truth  from  fields  of  fic- 
tion, 

Grow  wiser  from  conviction,  and  fulfil  God's  grand 
design. 

I  live  to  hail  the  season,  by  gifted  ones  foretold, 
When  man  shall  live  by  reason,  and  not  alone  by 

gold; 
When  man  to  man  united,  and  every  wrong  thing 

righted, 
The  whole  world  shall  be  lighted,  as  Eden  was  of 

old. 

I  live  for  those  who  love  me,  for  those  who  know  me 

true; 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me,  and  awaits 

my  spirit  too ; 
For  the  cause  that  lacks  assistance,  for  the  wrong 

that  needs  resistance, 
For  the  future  in  the  distance  and  the  good  that  I 

can  do. 

G.  Linnxus  Banks 


WE  LODGE  HIM  IN  THE  MANGER     71 


WE  LODGE  HIM  IN  THE  MANGER 

Yet  if  His  Majesty,  our  sovereign  lord, 

Should  of  his  own  accord 

Friendly  himself  invite, 

And  say  "I'll  be  your  guest  to-morrow  night," 

How  should  we  stir  ourselves,  call  and  command 

All  hands  to  work!  "Let  no  man  idle  stand. 

"Set  me  fine  Spanish  tables  in  the  hall; 

See  they  be  fitted  all; 

Let  there  be  room  to  eat 

And  order  taken  that  there  want  no  meat. 

See  every  sconce  and  candlestick  made  bright, 

That  without  tapers  they  may  give  a  light. 

"Look  to  the  presence:  are  the  carpets  spread, 

The  dazie  o'er  the  head, 

The  cushions  in  the  chairs, 

And  all  the  candles  lighted  on  the  stairs? 

Perfume  the  chambers,  and  in  any  case 

Let  each  man  give  attendance  in  his  place!" 

Thus,  if  a  king  were  coming,  would  we  do ; 

And  't  were  good  reason  too; 

For  't  is  a  duteous  thing 

To  show  all  honour  to  an  earthly  king, 

And  after  all  our  travail  and  our  cost, 

So  he  be  pleased,  to  think  no  labour  lost. 

But  at  the  coming  of  the  King  of  Heaven 

All's  set  at  six  and  seven; 

We  wallow  in  our  sin, 

Christ  cannot  find  a  chamber  in  the  inn. 


72  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

We  entertain  Him  always  like  a  stranger, 
And,  as  at  first,  still  lodge  Him  in  the  manger. 

Anonymous 

IF  THIS  WERE  FAITH! 

God !  If  this  were  enough, 

That  I  see  things  bare  to  the  buff 

And  up  to  the  buttocks  in  mire. 

That  I  ask  nor  hope  nor  hire, 

Not  in  the  husk, 

Nor  dawn  beyond  the  dusk, 

Nor  life  beyond  death: 

God  —  if  this  were  faith  I 

Having  felt  Thy  wind  in  my  face 

Spit  sorrow  and  disgrace, 

Having  seen  Thy  evil  doom 

In  Golgotha  and  Khartoum, 

And  the  brutes,  the  work  of  Thine  hands, 

Fill  with  injustice  lands 

And  stain  with  blood  the  sea. 

If  still  in  my  veins  the  glee 

Of  the  black  night  and  the  sun 

And  the  lost  battle  run; 

If,  an  adept, 

The  iniquitous  lists  I  still  accept 

With  joy,  and  joy  to  endure  and  be  withstood, 

And  still  to  battle  and  perish  for  a  dream  of  good ; 

God  —  if  that  were  enough ! 

If  to  feel  in  the  ink  of  the  slough 
And  the  sink  of  the  mire 
Veins  of  glory  and  fire 


DEFERRED  73 

Run  through  and  transpierce  and  transpire, 

And  a  secret  purpose  of  glory  fill  each  part, 

And  the  answering  glory  of  battle  fill  my  heart; 

To  thrill  with  the  joy  of  girded  men, 

To  go  on  forever  and  fail,  and  go  on  again, 

And  be  mauled  to  the  earth  and  arise, 

And  contend  for  the  shade  of  a  word  and  a  thing 

not  seen  with  the  eyes  — 

With  the  half  of  a  broken  hope  for  a  pillow  at  night 
That  somehow  the  right  is  the  right, 
And  the  smooth  shall  bloom  from  the  rough: 
Lord  —  if  that  were  enough ! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


DEFERRED 

All  things  at  last  I  win  —  but  all  too  late, 
Like  harvests  gathered  after  he  who  sowed 
Has  died  of  hunger ;  or  a  debt,  long  owed, 

The  creditor  dead,  paid  heirs  of  his  estate. 

Upon  my  eyelids  hangs  a  burning  weight 
Of  tears,  now,  looking  on  the  long,  long  road 
And  thinking  of  the  slavery  and  the  goad 

In  empty  years  when  little  things  seemed  great. 

Is  Hope's  high  goal  a  picture  hung  in  air, 

The  desert  phantasm  of  the  palm  and  Spring? 

Yet  even  so,  it  still  is  real  somewhere, 
And  that  foregleam  is  so  divine  a  thing 
It  works  the  forming  of  the  spirit's  wing  — 

Desire  creative  mastering  all  despair! 

Stokely  S.  Fisher 


74  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

"FEAR  NOT  THE  MENACE" 

Life  as  it  isl  Accept  it;  it  is  thine! 
The  God  that  gave  it,  gave  it  for  thy  good. 
The  God  that  made  it  had  not  been  divine 
Could  he  have  set  thee  poison  for  thy  food. 

Abstain  not;  Life  and  Love,  like  night  and  day, 
Offer  themselves  to  us  on  their  own  terms, 
—  Not  ours.  Accept  their  bounty  while  ye  may, 
Before  we  be  accepted  by  the  worms. 

We  rail  at  Time  and  Chance,  and  break  our  hearts 

To  make  the  glory  of  to-day  endure. 

Is  the  sun  dead  because  the  day  departs? 

And  are  the  suns  of  Life  and  Love  less  sure? 

Fear  not  the  menace  of  the  bye-and-bye. 
To-day  is  ours ;  to-morrow  Fate  must  give. 
Stretch  out  your  hands  and  eat,  although  ye  die  1 
Better  to  die  than  never  once  to  live. 

Richard  flovey 


THROUGH  NATURE  UP  TO  GOD 

Where  once  Zenobia's  bastions  rose, 
The  wind  that  stirs  the  desert  sand 

Now  softly  sighs  and  sadly  blows 
O'er  Tadmor's  desolated  land;  — 

The  dirge  for  life  and  glory  fled, 

The  requiem  for  centuries  dead. 

The  towers  of  Troy  are  sunk  in  tears, 
The  golden  domes  of  Tyre  are  gone, 


GOD  IN  MY  GARDEN  75 

And  only  wandering  echo  hears 

The  vagrant  name  of  Babylon; 
And  ravens  flit  and  serpents  hiss 
O'er  what  was  once  Persepolis. 

Yet  always  the  aspiring  Soul,  — 

The  Angel  in  the  mortal  clod, 
The  Vision  that  defies  control,  — 

Will  look  through  Nature  up  to  God ; 
And  strive,  in  word  and  form,  to  speak 
The  beauty  it  was  born  to  seek. 

And  not  in  vain,  from  age  to  age, 
In  forms  of  grandeur  and  of  grace, 

Is  writ  on  more  than  History's  page, 
The  progress  of  the  human  race  — • 

The  rise  of  mind  and  feeling,  shown 

In  golden  poems  made  of  stone. 

William  Winter 


GOD  IN  MY  GARDEN 

A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot! 
Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 
Fern'd  grot  — 

The  veriest  school 

Of  peace ;  and  yet  the  fool 
Contends  that  God  is  not  — 
Not  God !  In  gardens !  When  the  eve  is  cool? 

Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign ; 

'T  is  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 

Thomas  Edward  Brown 


76  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


A  LITTLE  WORK 

A  little  work,  a  little  play 

To  keep  us  going  —  and  so,  good-day ! 

A  little  warmth,  a  little  light 

Of  love's  bestowing  —  and  so,  good-night! 

A  little  fun,  to  match  the  sorrow 

Of  each  day's  growing  —  and  so,  good-morrow  I 

A  little  trust  that  when  we  die 

We  reap  our  sowing !  And  so,  good-bye ! 

George  Du  Maurier 


THE  DYING  PANTHEIST  TO  THE  PRIEST 

Take  your  ivory  Christ  away: 

No  dying  god  shall  have  my  knee 

While  live  gods  breathe  in  this  wild  wind 
And  shout  from  yonder  dashing  sea. 

When  March  brings  back  the  Adonis  flower  — 
No  more  the  white  processions  meet 

With  incense  to  their  risen  lord 
About  the  pillared  temple's  feet. 

From  tusk  of  boar,  from  thrust  of  spear 
The  dead  rise  not.  At  Eastertide 

The  same  sun  dances  on  their  graves  — 
Love's  darling  and  the  Crucified. 

Yet  still  the  year's  returning  tide 

Flows  greenly  round  each  ruined  plinth, 


THE  DYING  PANTHEIST  77 

Breaking  on  fallen  shafts  in  foam 
Of  crocus  and  of  hyacinth: 

Tossing  a  spray  of  swallows  high, 

To  flutter  lightly  on  the  breeze 
And  fleck  with  tiny  spots  of  shade 

The  sunshine  on  the  broken  frieze. 

I  know  the  gray-green  asphodels 
Still  sheet  the  dim  Elysian  mead, 

And  ever  by  dark  Lethe's  wells 
The  poppy  sheds  her  ghostly  seed. 

And  once  —  O  once !  —  when  sunset  lay 
Blood-red  across  the  winter  sea, 

Where  on  the  sands  we  drained  our  flasks 
And  danced  and  cried  our  Evoe!  — 

Among  the  tossing  cakes  of  ice 
And  spouting  of  the  frozen  spray, 

We  saw  their  white  limbs  twist  and  whirl  — 
The  ancient  sea-gods  at  their  play. 

The  gold-brown  liquor  burned  my  heart, 
The  icy  tempest  stung  my  brow : 

The  twanging  of  Apollo's  lyre  — 
I  heard  it  as  I  hear  it  now. 

O  no,  the  old  gods  are  not  dead : 

I  think  that  they  will  never  die ; 
But  I,  who  lie  upon  this  bed 

In  mortal  anguish  —  what  am  I? 


78  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

A  wave  that  rises  with  a  breath 
Above  the  infinite  watery  plain, 

To  foam  and  sparkle  in  the  sun 
A  moment  ere  it  sink  again. 

The  eternal  undulation  runs: 
A  man,  I  die:  perchance  to  be, 

Next  life,  a  white-throat  on  the  wind, 
A  daffodil  on  Tempe's  lea. 

They  lied  who  said  that  Pan  was  dead : 
Life  was,  life  is,  and  life  shall  be. 

So  take  away  your  crucifix  — 
The  everliving  gods  for  me ! 

Henry  A.  Beers 

THE  SEEKER 

The  creeds  he  wrought  of  dream  and  thought 
Fall  from  him  at  the  touch  of  life, 
His  old  gods  fail  him  in  the  strife  — 

Withdrawn,  the  heavens  he  sought ! 

Vanished  the  miracles  that  led, 

The  cloud  at  noon,  the  flame  at  night; 

The  vision  that  he  wing'd  and  sped 

Falls  backward,  baffled,  from  the  height; 

Yet  in  the  wreck  of  these  he  stands 
Upheld  by  something  grim  and  strong; 
Some  stubborn  instinct  lifts  a  song 

And  nerves  him,  heart  and  hands ; 

He  does  not  dare  to  call  it  hope ;  — 
It  is  not  aught  that  seeks  reward  — 


THE  SEEKER  79 


Nor  faith,  that  up  some  sunward  slope 
Runs  aureoled  to  meet  its  lord; 

It  touches  something  elder  far 

Than  faith  or  creed  or  thought  in  man, 
It  was  ere  yet  these  lived  and  ran 

Like  light  from  star  to  star; 

It  touches  that  stark,  primal  need 
That  from  unpeopled  voids  and  vast, 

Fashioned  the  first  crude,  childish  creed,  — 
And  still  shall  fashion,  till  the  last! 

For  one  word  is  the  tale  of  men: 
They  fling  their  ikons  to  the  sod, 
And  having  trampled  down  a  god 

They  seek  a  god  again ! 

Stripped  of  his  creeds  inherited, 
Bereft  of  all  his  sires  held  true, 

Amid  the  wreck  of  visions  dead 

He  thrills  at  touch  of  visions  new.  ... 

He  wings  another  Dream  for  flight.  . . . 
He  seeks  beyond  the  outmost  dawn 
A  god  he  set  there  .  .  .  and,  anon, 

Drags  that  god  from  the  height ! 

But  aye  from  ruined  faiths  and  old 

That  droop  and  die,  fall  bruised  seeds; 
And  when  new  flowers  and  faiths  unfold, 
They're  lovelier  flowers,  they're  kindlier 
creeds. 

Don  Marquis 


8o  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


"ALIENI  TEMPORIS  FLORES" 

("And  wise  men  hold  in  due  respect 
the  blossoms  of  other  days") 

Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead? 

No  one  denies  the  need  of  this, 

The  utter  childlike  human  need ; 

Nor  that  dead  dreams,  dead  tears,  dead  loves, 

Should  lie  perdu 

Within  the  vault  of  time; 

Nor  that  the  snows  of  other  years 

Must  melt  away 

Before  the  hot  procession  of  our  headlong  days. 

But  let  it  be  no  more  than  this; 

Let  us  not  seize  upon  the  hours 

When  blood  ran  tumbling  to  the  lips, 

And  make  of  memory  a  thing  of  scorn; 

Let  us  not  taint  the  honest  wine  of  old  desire 

With  cheap  regret : 

The  cheapest  pain  within  all  mortal  range; 

Let  us  not  say  that  where  we  gave  and  took, 

Full-hearted  and  full-hoped  and  daring  all, 

The  world  was  aught  the  poorer  for  our  dreams. 

Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead? 

Yes  —  but  in  full  honor,  too ! 

Not  only  for  the  flame  that  was  its  breath, 

But  for  the  spark 

That  somewhere  smolders  in  the  grave. 

G.  B.  C. 


MAKE  NO  DESPERATE  SEARCH        81 

MAKE  NO  DESPERATE  SEARCH 
FOR  GOD 

Come  out  to  our  house  any  week-end  in  June, 
When  dandelions  riot  in  the  grass: 
And  drink  the  yellow  floods  of  afternoon, 
Poured  from  a  sky  of  blue  and  quivering  glass. 
Go  through  the  arbor  where  the  ramblers  mass 
In  crimson  flame  against  white  lattices: 
Open  the  easy  swinging  gate,  and  pass 
Beneath  the  birch,  between  the  maple  trees 
With  tops  a-tremble  in  the  southwest  breeze: 
Follow  along  the  curving  gravel  walk 
Up  to  the  terrace  top,  where,  as  you  please, 
Tobacco,  high  adventure,  casual  talk, 
And  journey's  end  await,  if  you  are  one 
Who  would  live  much  and  quietly  in  the  sun. 

On  Sunday  morning  you  may  go  to  church 

In  any  way  you  please,  or  not  at  all. 

There  is  a  stately  one  beneath  our  birch, 

A  lowlier  one  out  by  the  garden  wall: 

Methodist,  Catholic,  Episcopal, 

Are  all  within  an  easy  morning's  stroll; 

But  if  these  venerable  creeds  appal, 

A  garden  spade  may  benefit  your  soul; 

Or  some  eternal  verity  unroll 

As  you  spread  paint  upon  the  kitchen  screens, 

Or  fix  fresh-cut  nasturtiums  in  a  bowl, 

Or  hold  communion  with  the  lima  beans. 

Or  you  may  put  your  clean  white  flannels  on 

And  meet  it  as  you  ramble  through  the  lawn. 


SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


But  do  not  make  a  desperate  search  for  God 

Lest  you  offend  his  quiet  dignity. 

The  week-end  is  no  time  to  pant  or  plod 

The  rock-strewn  roads  of  any  Calvary. 

It  is  a  time  to  live  in  the  sun,  and  see 

Your  favorite  god  by  glimpses,  everywhere. 

I  find  him  lurking  quite  persistently 

In  our  young  daughter's  laugh,  and  in  her  hair; 

And  if  the  baby  smiles,  he  lingers  there : 

But  when  the  baby  cries,  he  understands 

And  straightway  slips  without  offense  or  care 

Into  my  wife's  brown  eyes  and  her  white  hands; 

And  many  a  moonlit  night  in  fall  he  comes 

To  dance  among  the  red  chrysanthemums. 

John  French  Wilson 

JESUS  THE  CARPENTER 

"Is  n't  this  Joseph's  son?"  —  ay,  it  is  He; 
Joseph  the  carpenter  —  same  trade  as  me  — 
I  thought  as  I'd  find  it  —  I  knew  it  was  here  — 
But  my  sight 's  getting  queer. 

I  don't  know  right  where  as  his  shed  must  ha* 

stood  — 

But  often,  as  I've  been  a-planing  my  wood, 
I  've  took  off  my  hat,  just  with  thinking  of  He 
At  the  same  work  as  me. 

He  warn't   that  set  up  that  He  could  n't  stoop 

down 

And  work  in  the  country  for  folks  in  the  town ; 
And  I  '11  warrant  He  felt  a  bit  pride,  like  I  've  done 
At  a  good  job  begun. 


ATOMS  AND  AGES  83 

The  parson  he  knows  that  I'll  not  make  too  free, 
But  on  Sunday  I  feels  as  pleased  as  can  be, 
When  I  wears  my  clean  smock,  and  sits  in  a  pew, 
And  has  thoughts  a  few. 

I  think  of  as  how  not  the  parson  hissen, 
As  is  teacher  and  father  and  shepherd  o'  men, 
Not  he  knows  as  much  of  the  Lord  in  that  shed, 
Where  He  earned  his  own  bread. 

And  when  I  goes  home  to  my  missus,  says  she, 

"  Are  ye  wanting  your  key?  " 

For  she  knows  my  queer  ways,  and  my  love  for  the 

shed, 
(We've  been  forty  years  wed.) 

So  I  comes  right  away  by  mysen,  with  the  book, 
And  I  turns  the  old  pages  and  has  a  good  look 
For  the  text  as  I  've  found,  as  tells  me  as  He 
Were  the  same  trade  as  me. 

Why  don't  I  mark  it?  Ah,  many  says  so, 
But  I  think  I  'd  as  lief,  with  your  leave,  let  it  go : 
It  do  seem  that  nice  when  I  fall  on  it  sudden  — 
Unexpected,  you  know! 

Catherine  C.  Liddell 


ATOMS  AND  AGES 

Just  as  I  wonder  at  the  twofold  screen 
Of  twisted  innocence  that  you  would  plait 
For  eyes  that  uncourageously  await 
The  coming  of  a  kingdom  that  has  been, 


84  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

So  do  I  wonder  what  God's  love  can  mean 
To  you  that  all  so  strangely  estimate 
The  purpose  and  the  consequent  estate 
Of  one  short  shuddering  step  to  the  Unseen. 

No,  I  have  not  your  backward  faith  to  shrink 
Lone-faring  from  the  doorway  of  God's  home 
To  find  Him  in  the  names  of  buried  men; 
Nor  your  ingenious  recreance  to  think 
We  cherish,  in  the  life  that  is  to  come, 
The  scattered  features  of  dead  friends  again. 

Never  until  our  souls  are  strong  enough 
To  plunge  into  the  crater  of  the  Scheme  — 
Triumphant  in  the  flash  there  to  redeem 
Love's  handsel  —  and  forevermore  to  slough, 
Like  cerements  at  a  played-out  masque,  the 

rough 

And  reptile  skins  of  us  whereon  we  set 
The  stigma  of  scared  years  —  are  we  to  get 
Where  atoms  and  the  ages  are  one  stuff. 

Nor  ever  shall  we  know  the  cursed  waste 
Of  life  in  the  beneficence  divine 
Of  starlight  and  of  sunlight  and  soul-shine 
That  we  have  squandered  in  sin's  frail  distress, 
Till  we  have  drunk,  and  trembled  at  the  taste, 
The  mead  of  Thought's  prophetic  endlessness. 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


THE  PAGAN  85 


THE  PAGAN 

But  I  shall  feel  the  wind  again, 

Shall  drink  the  scent  of  flower  and  pine: 
And  I  shall  bask  in  April  suns 

Where  budding  willow  boughs  are  mine, 
The  stars  will  beat  across  the  night, 

The  waves  will  shout  their  tumult  then; 
And  I  shall  answer  in  my  joy, 

My  joy  at  praising  life  again. 

For  I  have  lived  with  waving  grass 

And  roots  and  golden  sap  astir; 
The  earth  has  held  me  to  her  breast, 

And  I  shall  laugh  again  with  her. 
I  have  loved  clouds  that  drift  and  pass, 

My  heart  has  flamed  to  eager  bloom 
In  gold  and  crimson  poppy  leaves 

And  rose  perfume. 

And  I  shall  dance  beneath  the  light 

Of  silver  crescent  moons  in  spring, 
And  I  shall  sleep  upon  the  leaves 

Of  autumn's  yellow  mouldering. 
For  somewhere,  there  will  open  wide 

A  little  magic,  outer  door, 
And  I  shall  pass  beyond  to  find 

The  loveliness  I  knew  before. 

Rose  Henderson 


86  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


"HE  WHOM  A  DREAM  HATH  POSSESSED" 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no 

more  of  doubting, 

For  mist  and  the  blowing  of  winds  and  the  mouth- 
ing of  words  he  scorns; 
Not  the  sinuous  speech  of  schools  he  hears,  but  a 

knightly  shouting, 

And  never  comes  darkness  down,  yet  he  greeteth 
a  million  morns. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no 

more  of  roaming; 

All  roads  and  the  flowing  of  waves  and  the  speed- 
iest flight  he  knows ; 
But  wherever  his  feet  are  set,  his  soul  is  forever 

homing, 

And  going,  he  comes ;  and  coming,  he  heareth  a 
call  and  goes. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no 

more  of  sorrow, 

At  death  and  the  dropping  of  leaves  and  the  fad- 
ing of  suns  he  smiles, 

For  a  dream  remembers  no  past  and  scorns  the  de- 
sire of  a  morrow, 

And  a  dream  in  a  sea  of  doom  sets  surely  the 
ultimate  isles. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  treads  the  im- 
palpable marches, 

From  the  dust  of  the  day's  long  road  he  leaps  to  a 
laughing  star, 


APRIL  THEOLOGY  87 

And  the  ruin  of  worlds  that  fall  he  views  from  eter- 
nal arches, 

And  rides  God's  battle-field  in  a  flashing  and 
golden  car. 

Shaemas  O'Sheel 


APRIL  THEOLOGY 

Oh  to  be  breathing  and  hearing  and  feeling  and 

seeing! 

Oh  the  ineffably  glorious  privilege  of  being! 
All  of  the  World's  lovely  girlhood,  unfleshed  and 

made  spirit, 
Broods  out  in  the  sunlight  this  morning  —  I  see  it, 

I  hear  it! 

So  read  me  no  text,  O  my  Brothers,  and  preach  me 
no  creeds; 

I  am  busy  beholding  the  glory  of  God  in  His  deeds ! 

See !  Everywhere  buds  coming  out,  blossoms  flam- 
ing, bees  humming! 

Glad  athletic  growers  up-reaching,  things  striving, 
becoming! 

Oh,  I  know  in  my  heart,  in  the  sun-quickened, 

blossoming  soul  of  me, 
This  something  called  self  is  a  part,  but  the  world  is 

the  whole  of  me ! 
I  am  one  with  these  growers,  these  singers,  these 

earnest  becomers  — 
Co-heirs  of  the  summer  to  be  and  past  aeons  of 

summers ! 


88  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  kneel  not  nor  grovel;  no  prayer  with  my  lips  shall 

I  fashion. 
Close-knit  in  the  fabric  of  things,  fused  with  one 

common  passion  — 
To  go  on  and  become  something  greater  —  we 

growers  are  one; 
None  more  in  the  world  than  a  bird  and  none  less 

than  the  sun; 

But  all  woven  into  the  glad  indivisible  Scheme, 
God  fashioning  out  in  the  Finite  a  part  of  his 

dream ! 

Out  here  where  the  world-love  is  flowing,  unfet- 
tered, unpriced, 

I  feel  all  the  depth  of  the  man-soul  and  girl-heart 
of  Christ! 

'Mid  this  riot  of  pink  and  white  flame  in  this  mira- 
cle weather, 

Soul  to  soul,  merged  in  one,  God  and  I  dream  the 
vast  dream  together. 

We  are  one  in  the  doing  of  things  that  are  done  and 
to  be: 

I  am  part  of  my  God  as  a  raindrop  is  part  of  the  sea ! 

What !  House  me  my  God?  Take  me  in  where  no 
blossoms  are  blowing? 

Roof  me  in  from  the  blue,  wall  me  in  from  the 
green  and  the  wonder  of  growing? 

Parcel  out  what  already  is  mine,  like  a  vendor  of 
staples? 

See!  Yonder  my  God  burns  revealed  in  the  sap- 
drunken  maples! 

John  G.  Neihardt 


"THE  VISION  SPLENDID"  89 


THE  CERTAIN  VICTORY 

Why  should  I  sit  in  doubt  or  fear?  If  I 

Awake  some  morning  from  that  dreaded  sleep 

To  find  myself  new-born  and  lifted  high, 
Then  I  will  turn,  and,  looking  o'er  the  deep 

That  lies  beneath  me,  shout  for  glee  and  throw 
A  last  good-by  at  Pain  and  Fear,  below. 

But  what  if,  at  the  last,  no  light  shall  break  — 

If  this  is  all  —  if  when  I  fall  asleep 
No  angel's  voice  shall  sweetly  cry  "Awake," 
And  there  shall  be  but  Nothing,  dark  and 

deep  — 
Ah,  well,  I  shall  not  care  if  it  be  so, 

I'll  triumph  still,  for  I  shall  never  know. 

S.  E.  Kiser 


"THE  VISION  SPLENDID" 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 


go  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 
And  by  the  Vision  Splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Wordsworth 


Say  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  conceal'd, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  flyers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking,' 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light; 

In  front  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly ! 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright ! 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough 


MIMNERMUS  IN  CHURCH  91 


MIMNERMUS  IN  CHURCH 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 
Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will; 

But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life, 
So  sweet,  I  fain  would  breathe  it  still : 

Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forego, 

This  warm,  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above: 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  love : 
Show  me  what  angels  feel.  Till  then, 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  sexless  souls,  ideal  choirs, 

Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains: 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear,  dead  friend's  remembered  tones. 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  cannot  pass  away; 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 

But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them,  is  because  they  die. 

William  Johnson  Cory 


92  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

THE  SCIENTIST  SPEAKS 

First,  I  abjure  all  dim  unreasoning  patter 
Wherewith  the  ignorant  befool  their  kind; 

Because  I  read  among  the  Laws  of  Matter 
The  limitations  of  the  human  mind. 

Then  I  will  not  believe,  till  I  have  cloven 
Into  the  very  heart  of  Law  and  Act; 

That  no  one  need  accept  what  I  have  proven 
Till  he  has  put  it  to  the  proof  of  Fact. 

Nor  will  I  let  the  teachings  of  another 
Absolve  me  from  my  task  of  finding  out, 

Just  as  I  will  not  force  upon  my  brother 
The  answer  I  have  made  to  mine  own  doubt 

I  will  be  true  to  this,  though  all  may  doubt  me, 
I  will  write  on,  and  over  every  sneer. 

So  will  I  build  my  Heaven  here  about  me 
And  live  my  life  within  it,  now  and  here. 

Charles  Henry  Mackintosh 


"CORONEMUS  NOS  ROSIS  ANTEQUAM 
MARCESCANT" 

Let  us  drink  and  be  merry,  dance,  joke,  and  re- 
joice, 

With  claret  and  sherry,  theorbo  and  voice ! 
The  changeable  world  to  our  joy  is  unjust, 

All  treasure 's  uncertain, 

Then  down  with  your  dust ! 

In  frolics  dispose  your  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence, 
For  we  shall  be  nothing  a  hundred  years  hence. 


CORONEMUS  NOS  ROSIS  93 

We'll  sport  and  be  free  with  Moll,  Betty,  and  Dolly, 
Have  oysters  and  lobsters  to  cure  melancholy : 
Fish-dinners  will  make  a  man  spring  like  a  flea, 

Dame  Venus,  love's  lady, 

Was  born  of  the  sea: 

With  her  and  with  Bacchus  we'll  tickle  the  sense, 
For  we  shall  be  past  it  a  hundred  years  hence. 

Your  most  beautiful  bride  who  with  garlands  is 

crowned 
And  kills  with  each  glance  as  she  treads  on  the 

ground, 
Whose  lightness  and  brightness  doth  shine  in  such 

splendor 

That  none  but  the  stars 
Are  thought  fit  to  attend  her, 
Though  now  she  be  pleasant  and  sweet  to  the 

sense, 
Will  be  damnable  mouldy  a  hundred  years  hence. 

Then  why  should  we  turmoil  in  cares  and  in  fears, 
Turn  all  our  tranquill'ty  to  sighs  and  to  tears? 
Let's  eat,  drink  and  play  till  the  worms  do  corrupt 

us, 

'T  is  certain,  "Post  mortem 
Nulla  voluptas." 
For  health,  wealth,  and  beauty,  wit,  learning  and 

sense, 

Must  all  come  to  nothing  a  hundred  years  hence. 

Thomas  Jordan 


94  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

WINE  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

He  rode  the  flame-winged  dragon-steed  of  Thought 
Through  Space  and  Darkness,  seeking  Heav'n 

and  Hell; 
And  searched  the  furthest  stars  where  souls 

might  dwell 
To  find  God's  justice;  and  in  vain  he  sought. 

Then,  looking  on  the  dusk-eyed  girl  who  brought 
His  dream-filled  wine  beside  his  garden  well, 
He  said :  "Her  kiss;  the  wine-jug's  drowsy  spell; 

Bulbul;  the  roses;  death;  —  all  else  is  naught: 

"So  drink  till  that."  —What!  drink,  because  the 

abyss 

Of  Nothing  waits?  Because  there  is  for  man 
But  one  swift  hour  of  consciousness  and  light? 

No  —  just  because  we  have  no  life  but  this, 

Turn  it  to  use;  be  noble  v/hile  you  can; 
Search,  help,  create;  then  pass  into  the  night. 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 


THE  PROBLEM 

I  like  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl; 
I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul; 
And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles: 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 
Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 
Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 


THE  PROBLEM  95 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  Nature  rolled 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below,  — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe : 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity; 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew;  — 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's  nest 

Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast? 

Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 

Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell? 

Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 

To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads? 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 

Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 

Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 

As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone, 

And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids, 

To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids; 

O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 

As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye; 

For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere, 

These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air; 


96  ^SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass ; 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned; 

And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  witkin. 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 

Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 

Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 

And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 

Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken; 

The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 

In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 

Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 

Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 

I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise,  — 

The  Book  itself  before  me  lies,  — 

Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 

And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 

The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 

Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 

His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 

I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear; 

And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 

I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


THE  PHANTOM  GARAVAN  tfj 


THE  PHANTOM  CARAVAN 

And  if  the  wine  you  drink,  the  lip  you  press, 
End  in  what  all  begins  and  ends  in  —  Yes; 

Think  then  you  are  To-day  what  Yesterday 
You  were  —  To-morrow  you  shall  not  be  less. 

So  when  the  Angel  of  the  darker  drink 
At  last  shall  find  you  by  the  river-brink, 
And,  offering  his  cup,  invite  your  Soul 
Forth  to  your  lips  to  quaff  —  you  shall  not  shrink. 

Why,  if  the  Soul  can  fling  the  dust  aside, 
And  naked-  on  the  air  of  Heaven  ride, 

Wer't  not  a  shame  —  wer't  not  a  shame  for 

him 
In  this  clay  carcase  crippled  to  abide? 

'T  is  but  a  tent  where  takes  his  one-day's  rest 
A  Sultan  to  the  realm  of  Death  addrest; 

The  Sultan  rises,  and  the  dark  Ferrash 
Strikes,  and  prepares  it  for  another  guest. 

And  fear  not  lest  existence  closing  your 

Account,  and  mine,  should  know  the  like  no  more; 

The  Eternal  Saki  from  that  bowl  has  pour'd 
Millions  of  bubbles  like  us,  and  will  pour. 

When  you  and  I  behind  the  veil  are  past, 

Oh  but  the  long  long  while  the  world  shall  last 

Which  of  our  coming  and  departure  heeds 
As  the  Sev'n  Seas  should  heed  a  pebble-cast. 


98  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

A  moment's  halt  —  a  momentary  taste 
Of  Being  from  the  well  amid  the  waste  — 

And  lo !  —  the  phantom  caravan  has  reach'd 
The  Nothing  it  set  out  from  —  Oh,  make  haste ! 

Omar  Khayyam 
Translated  by  Edward  Fitzgerald 


I  sent  my  soul  through  the  invisible, 
Some  letter  of  that  after-life  to  spell : 

And  by  and  by  my  Soul  return'd  to  me, 
And  answer'd :  "  I  myself  am  Heav'n  and  Hell." 

Heav'n  but  the  vision  of  fulfill'd  desire, 
And  Hell  the  shadow  of  a  soul  on  fire, 

Cast  on  the  darkness  into  which  ourselves, 
So  late  emerged  from,  shall  so  soon  expire. 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 

Of  magic  shadow-shapes  that  come  and  go 

Round  with  this  sun-illumin'd  lantern  held 
In  midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show; 

Impotent  pieces  of  the  game  He  plays 
Upon  this  checker-board  of  nights  and  days; 
Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks,  and 

slays, 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  closet  lays. 

The  ball  no  question  makes  of  ayes  and  noes 
But  right  and  left  as  strikes  the  Player  goes ; 

And  He  that  toss'd  you  down  into  the  field, 
He  knows  about  it  all  —  He  knows  —  He  knows  I 


NIRVANA  99 


The  Moving  Finger  writes;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on:  nor  all  your  piety  nor  wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  line, 
Nor  all  your  tears  wash  out  a  word  of  it. 

And  that  inverted  bowl  they  call  the  Sky, 
Whereunder  crawling  coop'd  we  live  and  die, 
Lift  not  your  hands  to  It  for  help  —  for  It 
As  impotently  rolls  as  you  or  I. 

Omar  Khayyam 
Translated  by  Edward  Fitzgerald 

NIRVANA 

Sleep  will  He  give  His  beloved? 
Not  dreams,  but  the  precious  guerdon  of  deepest 

rest? 

Aye,  surely !  Look  on  the  grave-closed  eyes, 
And  cold  hands  folded  on  tranquil  breast. 
Will  not  the  All-Great  be  just  and  forgive? 
For  He  knows  (though  we  make  no  prayer  nor 

cry) 
How  our  lone  souls  ached  when  our  pale  star  waned, 

How  we  watch  the  promiseless  sky. 
Life  hereafter?  Ah,  no :  we  have  lived  enough. 

Life  eternal?  Pray  God  it  may  not  be  so. 
Have  we  not  suffered  and  striven,  loved  and  en- 
dured, 

Run  through  the  whole  wide  gamut  of  passion 
and  woe? 

Strangest  illusion  I  Sprung  from  a  fevered  habit  of 

hope  — 

Wild  enthusiast's  dream  of  blatant  perfection  at 
best 


ioo  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Give  us  darkness  for  anguished  eyes,  stillness  for 

weary  feet, 
Silence  and  sleep;  but  no  heaven  of  glittering, 

loud  unrest. 
No  more  the  life-long  labour  of  smoothing  the 

stone-strewn  way; 
No  more  the  shuddering  outlook  athwart  the 

sterile  plain, 

Where  every  step  we  take,  every  word  we  say, 
Each  warm,  living  hand  that  we  cling  to,  is  but  a 
fence  against  pain. 

And  nothing  may  perish,  but  lives  again?  Where? 

Out  of  thought,  out  of  sight? 
And  where  is  your  cresset's  flame  that  the  rough 

wind  slew  last  night? 

Rosamund  Marriott  Watson 


STARS  IN  THE  MIST 

I  have  followed  the  sins  of  reckless  youth 

With  the  Devil  to  time  the  dance, 
And  farther  and  farther  I  drift  from  Truth 

As  the  hopeless  years  advance ; 
Round  me  and  over  the  mists  are  spread, 

With  the  pathway  hard  to  find, 
And  the  roar  of  the  flames  of  Hell  ahead 

And  the  bridges  burnt  behind. 

But  I  ask  no  help  of  the  gods  on  high, 

On  the  Devil  I  will  not  lean, 
And  I  will  not  drop  to  my  knees,  not  I, 

For  the  whole  world  in  between; 


ONE  PATH  joi 


For,  a-shine  on  the  gates  of  the  Future  barred, 

Two  stars  in  the  darkness  move 
To  guide  me :  the  star  of  a  man's  regard 

And  the  star  of  a  woman's  love. 

I  shall  know  no  doubt,  I  shall  hold  no  fear, 

I  shall  suffer  and  make  no  sign, 
As  long  as  those  stars  in  the  night  burn  clear 

And  the  way  of  those  stars  be  mine; 
And  I  shall  go  down  to  the  Deep  Abyss 

With  a  scorn  of  the  fears  of  old 
If  Fortune  will  leave  me  that  true  girl's  kiss 

And  that  true  man's  hand  to  hold. 

Wm  H.  Ogilvie 

ONE  PATH 

Outside  the  Earthly  Paradise, 
Beneath  its  great  gold  walls, 

I  walk  a  little,  grass-blurred  path 
Where  sunlight  seldom  falls. 

I  try  no  more  the  guarded  gates 

That  will  not  let  me  in; 
I  cease  to  wonder  what  the  cause, 

What  accident,  or  sin. 

i 
I  walk  the  lonely  path  that's  mine,    . 

My  heart  and  I  employ 
Our  solitude  in  songs  that  hymn 

The  near-by  Kingdom's  joy. 

And  once  while  singing^thus,  we  heard 
Far-off  and  friendly  cries 


102  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

And  saw,  high  up,  our  happy  kin, 
Love  in  their  lovely  eyes. 

Then  on  alone ! .  .  .  Where  leads  my  path 

Or  ends  I  can  not  tell; 
Outside  the  Earthly  Paradise 

I  know,  —  but  that  is  well. 

William  Alexander  Percy 

KRITERION 

I  see  the  spire, 

I  see  the  throng, 
I  hear  the  choir, 

I  hear  the  song; 
I  listen  to  the  anthem,  while 
It  pours  its  volume  down  the  aisle; 
I  listen  to  the  splendid  rhyme 
That,  with  a  melody  sublime, 
Tells  of  some  far-off,  fadeless  clime  — 
Of  man  and  his  finality, 
Of  hope,  and  immortality. 

Oh,  theme  of  themes ! 
Are  men  mistaught? 
Are  hopes  like  dreams, 

To  come  to  naught? 
Is  all  the  beautiful  and  good 
Delusive  and  misunderstood? 

And  has  the  soul  no  forward  reach? 
And  do  indeed  the  facts  impeach 
The  theories  the  teachers  teach? 
And  is  this  immortality 
Delusion  or  reality? 


NOTHINGNESS  103 

What  hope  reveals 

Mind  tries  to  clasp, 
But  soon  it  reels 

With  broken  grasp. 
No  chain  yet  forged  on  anvil's  brink 
Was  stronger  than  its  weakest  link; 
And  are  there  not  along  this  chain 
Imperfect  links  that  snap  in  twain 
When  caught  in  logic's  tensile  strain? 
And  is  not  immortality 
The  child  of  ideality? 

And  yet  —  at  times  — 

We  get  advice 
That  seems  like  chimes 

From  paradise; 

The  soul  doth  sometimes  seem  to  be 
In  sunshine  which  it  cannot  see; 
At  times  the  spirit  seems  to  roam 
Beyond  the  land,  above  the  foam, 
Back  to  some  half-forgotten  home. 
Perhaps  —  this  immortality 
May  be  indeed  reality. 

Eugene  F.  Ware 

NOTHINGNESS 

Behind  the  hosts  of  suns  and  stars,  behind 
The  rushing  of  the  chariots  of  the  wind, 
Behind  all  noises  and  all  shapes  of  things, 
And  men  and  deeds  —  behind  the  blaze  of  kings, 
Princes  and  paladins  and  potentates  — 
An  immense,  solitary  Spectre  waits. 


104  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

It  has  no  shape :  it  has  no  sound :  it  has 
No  place :  it  has  no  time :  it  is,  and  was, 
And  will  be :  it  is  never  more  nor  less, 
Nor  glad,  nor  sad.  Its  name  is  Nothingness. 
Power  walketh  high:  and  Misery  doth  crawl: 
And  the  clepsydra  drips :  and  the  sands  fall 
Down  in  the  hour-glass:  and  the  shadows  sweep 
Around  the  dial:  and  men  wake,  and  sleep, 
Live,  strive,  regret,  forget/and  love,  and  hate, 
And  know  it  not.  This  spectre  saith:  "I  wait." 
And  at  last  it  beckons,  and  they  pass. 
And  still  the  red  sands  fall  within  the  glass : 
And  still  the  shades  around  the  dial  sweep: 
And  still  the  water-clock  doth  drip  and  weep: 
And  this  is  all. 

Owen  Meredith 


THE  AWAKENING 

I 
Outward  from  the  planets  are  blown  the  fumes  of 

thought, 

And  the  breath  of  prayer  drifts  out  and  makes  a 
mist  between  the  stars; 

The  void  shall  be  void  no  longer, 
And  the  caverns  of  infinity  shall  be  fulfilled  of 
spirit; 

For  in  the  wilderness  between  the  worlds  a  sen- 
tience struggles  to  awaken, 

Passions  and  ghosts  and  visions  gather  into  a 
Form. 


THE  AWAKENING  105 

The  God  that  we  have  worshipped  for  a  million 

years  begins  to  be, 
And  he  whom  we  have  prayed  to  ereates  himself 

out  of  the  stuff  of  our  prayers. 

His  wings  are  still  heavy  with  chaos, 
And  his  pmions  are  holden  down  as  with  a  weight  of 
slumber; 

His  face  is  ambiguous, 

His  countenance  is  uncertain  behind  the  veils  of 
space ; 

He  has  not  speech, 

He  has  but  only  thunder  for  his  voice; 

But  the  mornings  gather  to  shape  his  eye, 
And  the  fire  of  many  dawns  has  thrilled  bis  twilight 
with  a  prescience  of  vision. 

II 

From  myriad  altars  a  reek  of  incense, 
And  outward  from  the  constellations  there  leaps 
,  the  flame  of  burning  prophets; 

There  goes  forth  the  breath  of  lovely  purpose, 
As  a  south  wind  bearing  seeds  over  a  meadow  it 
goes  forth  across  the  firmament; 

There  arises  a  dew  from  the  bruised  foreheads  of 

martyrs, 
And  the  broken  hearts  of  the  just,  of  them  that  have 

loved  justice,  are  dissolved  into  a  bloody 

dew; 


io6  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Out  from  the  populated  spheres  a  mist, 
And  from  the  peopled  worlds  a  breeding  fog: 

And  in  the  mist  a  God  gathers  unto  Himself  Form, 

and  apparels  himself  in  Being; 
For  they  that  have  desired  a  God  create  him  from 

the  stuff  of  that  desire. 

m 

In  the  nebular  chasms  there  is  a  shaping  soul, 
And  a  light  begins  to  glow  in  the  dark  abyss ; 

That  which  is  to  be  draws  to  itself  what  has  been 

and  what  is, 
He  drinks  up  the  hopes  of  them  that  were  as  a  sun 

sucks  up  water; 

He  builds  himself  out  of  the  desperate  faith  of 

them  that  have  sought  him, 
And  his  face  shall  be  wrought  of  the  wish  to  see  his 

face. 

Man  has  lifted  his  voice  unto  the  hollow  sky  and 
there  was  no  answer  but  the  echo  of  his  voice, 
But  out  of  many  echoes  there  shall  grow  a  word. 

There  is  a  cry  from  the  peaks  of  Caucasus, 
From  the  throat  of  Prometheus  a  hoarse  shout  of 
agony  and  courage  and  defiance; 

Answer,  O  you  stars !  and  make  reply,  you  rushing 

worlds  1 
Have  you  not  always  chained  your  Titans  where 

the   vultures   scream   about   the   bloodied 

rocks 


THE  AWAKENING  107 

Have  you  not  thrust  your  beaks  into  the  livers  of 
them  that  loved  you? 

There  is  a  cry  goes  forth  from  all  the  stars, 
The  voice  of  rebels  and  great  lovers; 

Out  of  agonies  and  love  shall  God  be  made, 

He  is  wrought  of  cries  that  meet  between  the 

worlds, 
Of  seeking  cries  that  have  come  forth  from  the 

cruel  spheres  to  find  a  God  and  be  stilled. 

Answer,  you  populations, 

And  make  reply,  you  planets  that  are  red  in  space : 
Do  not  ten  thousand  broken  Christs  this  hour  cry 
their  despair? 

Are  not  Golgothas  shaken  this  hour,  and  the  suns 

shamed? 
Goes  there  not  forth  a  manifold  wailing  of  them 

that  cry; 
"My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?" 

These  cries  have  wandered  out  along  the  waste 

places, 
And  these  despairs  have  met  in  the  wilderness  of 

chaos, 
And  they  have  wrought  a  God; 

For  he  builds  himself  of  the  passion  of  martyrs, 
And  he  is  woven  of  the  ecstasy  of  great  lovers, 
And  he  is  wrought  of  the  anguish  of- them  that  have 
greatly  needed  him. 

Don  Marquis 


io8  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

THE  KASIDAH 
(The  Lay  of  the  Higher  Law) 

Do  what  thy  manhood  bids  thee  do,  from  none  but 

self  expect  applause; 
He  noblest  lives  and  noblest  dies  who  makes  and 

keeps  his  self-made  laws. 

All  other  Life  is  living  Death,  a  world  where  none 

but  Phantoms  dwell, 
A  breath,  a  wind,  a  sound,  a  voice,  a  tinkling  of  the 

camel's-bell. 


And,  glancing  down  the  range  of  years,  fear  not  thy 

future  self  to  see; 
Resigned  to  life,  to  death  resign'd,  as  though  the 

choice  were  naught  to  thee. 

Pluck  the  old  woman  from  thy  breast;  Be  stout  in 

woe,  be  stark  in  weal; 
Do  good  for  Good  is  good  to  do:  Spurn  bribe  of 

Heav'n  and  threat  of  Hell. 

To  seek  the  True,  to  glad  the  heart,  such  is  of  life 

the  HIGHER  LAW, 
Whose  diff'rence  is  the  Man's  degree,  the  Man  of 

gold,  the  Man  of  straw. 

See  not  that  something  in  Mankind  that  rouses 

hate  or  scorn  or  strife, 
Better  the  worm  of  Izrail  than  Death  that  walks  in 

form  of  Life. 


THE  KASIDAH  109 

Survey  thy  kind  as  One  whose  wants  in  the  great 

Human  Whole  unite; 
The  Homo  rising  high  from  earth  to  seek  the 

Heav'ns  of  Life-in-Light; 

And  hold  Humanity  one  man,  whose  universal 

agony 
Still  strains  and  strives  to  gain  the  goal,  where 

agonies  shall  cease  to  be. 

Believe  in  all  things;  none  believe;  judge  not  nor 

warp  by  "Facts"  the  thought; 
See  clear,  hear  clear,  tho'  life  may  seem  Maya  and 

Mirage,  Dream  and  Naught. 

Abjure  the  Why  and  seek  the  How:  the  God  and 

gods  enthroned  on  high 
Are  silent  all,  are  silent  still;  nor  hear  thy  voice,  nor 

deign  reply. 

•        •        • 

Perchance  the  law  some  Giver  hath:  Let  be !  let  bel 

what  canst  thou  know? 
A  myriad  races  came  and  went;  this  Sphinx  hath 

seen  them  come  and  go. 

Haply  the  Law  that  rules  the  world  allows  to  man 

the  widest  range; 
And  haply  Fate 's  a  Theist-word,  subject  to  human 

chance  and  change. 

This  "I"  may  find  a  future  life,  a  nobler  copy  of  our 

own, 
Where  every  riddle  shall  be  ree'd,  where  every 

knowledge  shall  be  known; 


no  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Where  'twill  be  man's  to  see  the  whole  of  what  on 

Earth  he  sees  in  part; 
Where  change  shall  ne'er  surcharge  the  thought; 

nor  hope  defer'd  shall  hurt  the  heart. 

But  I  —  faded  flower  and  fallen  leaf  no  more  shall 

deck  the  parent  tree; 
And  man  once  dropt  by  Tree  of  Life  what  hope  of 

mother  life  has  he? 

The  shattered  bowl  shall  know  repair;  the  riven  lute 

shall  sound  once  more ; 
But  who  shall  mend  the  clay  of  man,  the  stolen 

breath  to  man  restore? 

The  shiver'd  clock  again  shall  strike;  the  broken 

reed  shall  pipe  again : 
But  we,  we  die,  and  Death  is  one,  the  doom  of 

brutes,  the  doom  of  men. 

Then,  if  Nirwana  round  our  life  with  nothingness, 

'tis  haply  best; 
Thy  toils  and  troubles,  want  and  woe  at  length  have 

won  their  guerdon  —  Rest. 

Wend  now  thy  way  with  brow  serene,  fear  not  thy 

humble  tale  to  tell:  — 
The  whispers  of  the  Desert-wind;  the  Tinkling  of 

the  camel's-bell. 

Sir  Richard  Burton 


DISSOLUTION  in 

DISSOLUTION 

If  he  may  come  for  me; 

If,  when  the  ebbing  tide  runs  out  to  sea, 

He'll  come  from  out  the  gloom,  once  more,  and 

stand 

There,  close  beside  me,  holding  out  his  hand; 
If  I  may  see,  ere  blackness  closes  in, 
The  reassurance  of  his  boyish  grin  — 
I  shall  have  grace  to  smile  on  those  who  weep, 
And  close  my  eyes  in  sleep. 

If  he  will  speak  my  name, 

It  will  not  be  as  though  Death's  Angel  came, 

Stern-eyed  and  winged  with  flame,  to  take  me 

home  — 

For  there  are  purple  hills  we  loved  to  roam; 
We  knew  calm  streams  with  shoals  where  fishes 

spawn, 

And  sunsets'  fires  and  bugles  of  the  dawn, 
And  tranquil  pools,  inviting  us  to  swim  — 
So,  I  would  welcome  him. 

I  would  not  that  my  eyes 

Should  see  him  in  the  garb  of  Paradise, 

Serene  and  radiant,  with  the  earthly  clay 

By  fires  of  tribulation  burned  away, 

A  splendid  spirit,  bright  and  purified; 

Nor  with  the  smile  that  came  the  day  he  died  — 

That  strange,  high  smile  of  cold  austerity; 

I  pray  this  may  not  be. 

I  hope  he  may  not  speak 

Some  august,  sounding  summons  to  the  weak 


H2  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

And  frightened  spirit  Let  his  battered  creel 
Be  slung  and  in  his  hand  his  rod  and  reel. 
So  let  me  see  him  stand  there,  kind  and  fat, 
With  grizzled  hair  and  trout-flies  in  his  hat, 
And,  bending,  grin  and  slap  my  back  and  say: 
"Come,  son;  they'll  rise  to-day!" 

Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water 

"UNTO  THE  LEAST  OF  THESE" 

The  Lord  was  teaching  folk  by  the  sea  shore; 
His  voice  had  quelled  the  storm,  it  raged  no 

more; 

His  word  was  like  a  balm,  and  did  impart 
Joy  to  the  righteous,  hope  to  the  broken  heart. 
"Whoso  shall  love  me  perfectly,"  said  He, 
"Shall  look  upon  my  Father  and  on  Me." 
And  people  listened  humbly  to  His  Word. 

Now  on  the  outer  side  of  them  that  heard, 
A  certain  woman,  leading  by  the  hand 
Her  child,  had  halted,  passing  on  that  way, 
And  hearkening  for  a  while  the  twain  did  stand. 
She  had  grown  old  with  gleaning,  and  that  day 
The  load  she  carried  was  of  straw,  not  wheat, 
And  all  her  mother's  heart  heaved  full  of  sighs ; 
But  lo,  the  boy  was  rosy-hued  and  sweet; 
A  fair,  small  child  he  was,  with  smiling  eyes 
That  shamed  the  miserable  rags  he  wore. 
The  child  said :  "  Mother,  who  speaks  there  on 

the  shore?" 

"  Child,  't  is  a  prophet :  holy  laws  they  be 
He  gives  to  men." 


"HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP"     113 

"I  wish  that  I  could  see 
The  prophet,  mother."  And  the  child  strove 

hard, 

Stood  on  tiptoe,  and  pressed  to  find  a  breach 
In  the  thick  crowd;  but  many  tall  folk  barred 
And  hemmed  him  in,  so  that  he  could  not 

reach 

To  look  upon  the  Master  whose  kind  speech 
Wrought  in  his  ear.  Then,  eager  still,  he  cried : 
"  I  should  behold  him,  mother  dear,  if  thou 
Wouldst  lift  me  in  thine  arms." 

But  she  replied, 

"Child,  I  am  tired;  I  cannot  lift  thee  now." 
Then  a  great  sadness  came  upon  the  child 
And  tears  stood  in  the  eyes  that  lately  smiled. 

But  Jesus,  walking  through  the  crowd,  drew 

near 

E'en  to  the  child  and  said,  "  Lo,  —  I  am  here." 
Arthur  O'Shaughnessy 

"HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP" 

The  long  day  passes  with  its  load  of  sorrow: 

In  slumber  deep 
I  lay  me  down  to  rest  until  to-morrow  — 

Thank  God  for  sleep. 

Thank  God  for  all  respite  from  weary  toiling, 

From  cares  that  creep 
Across  our  lives  like  evil  shadows,  spoiling 

God's  kindly  sleep. 


H4  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

We  plough  and  sow,  and,  as  the  hours  grow 
later, 

We  strive  to  reap, 

And  build  our  barns,  and  hope  to  build  them 
greater 
Before  we  sleep. 

We  toil  and  strain  and  strive  with  one  another 

In  hopes  to  heap 
Some  greater  share  of  profit  than  our  brother 

Before  we  sleep. 

What  will  it  profit  that  with  tears  or  laughter 

Our  watch  we  keep? 
Beyond  it  all  there  lies  the  Great  Hereafter  — 

Thank  God  for  sleep ! 

For,  at  the  last,  beseeching  Christ  to  save  us, 

We  turn  with  deep, 
Heart-felt  thanksgiving  unto  God  who  gave  us 

The  Gift  of  Sleep. 

Major  A.  B.  Paterson 

THE  HILLS  OF  REST 

Beyond  the  last  horizon's  rim, 

Beyond  adventure's  farthest  quest, 

Somewhere  they  rise,  serene  and  dim, 
The  happy,  happy  Hills  of  Rest. 

Upon  their  sunlit  slopes  uplift 
The  castles  we  have  built  in  Spain  — 

While  fair  amid  the  summer  drift 
Our  faded  gardens  flower  again. 


"BAREST  THOU  NOW,  O  SOUL"     115 

Sweet  hours  we  did  not  live  go  by 
To  soothing  note,  on  scented  wing; 

In  golden-lettered  volumes  lie 
The  songs  we  tried  in  vain  to  sing. 

They  all  are  there :  the  days  of  dream 
That  build  the  inner  lives  of  men; 

The  silent,  sacred  years  we  deem 

The  might  be,  and  the  might  have  been. 

Some  evening  when  the  sky  is  gold 

I'll  follow  day  into  the  west; 
Nor  pause,  nor  heed,  till  I  behold 

The  happy,  happy  Hills  of  Rest. 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine 

"BAREST  THOU  NOW,  O  SOUL" 

Barest  thou  now,  O  soul, 
Walk  out  with  me  toward  the  unknown  region, 
Where  neither  ground  is  for  the  feet  nor  any  path  to 
follow? 

No  map  there,  nor  guide, 
Nor  voice  sounding,  nor  touch  of  human  hand, 
Nor  face  with  blooming  flesh,  nor  lips,  nor  eyes,  are 
in  that  land. 

I  know  it  not,  O  soul ! 
Nor  dost  thou,  all  is  a  blank  before  us,  — 
All  waits  undreamed  of  in  that  region,  that  inacces- 
sible land. 


n6  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Till  when  the  tie  is  loosened, 
All  but  the  ties  eternal,  Time  and  Space, 
Nor  darkness,  gravitation,  sense,  nor  any  bounds 
bounding  us  — 

Then  we  burst  forth,  we  float, 
In  Time  and  Space,  O  soul!  prepared  for  them, 
Equal,  equipped  at  last,  —  O  joy!  O  fruit  of  all!  — 
them  to  fulfill,  O  soul ! 

Walt  Whitman 

"WHEN  THE  TIME  FOR  PARTING 
COMES" 

When  the  time  for  parting  comes,  and  the  day  is  on 

the  wane, 
And  the  silent  evening  darkens  over  hill  and  over 

plain, 
And  earth  holds  no  more  sorrow,  no  more  grief,  and 

no  more  pain, 
Shall  we  weary  for  the  battle  and  the  strife? 

When  at  last  the  trail  is  ending,  and  the  stars  are 
growing  near, 

And  we  breathe  the  breath  of  conquest,  and  the 
voices  that  we  hear 

Are  the  great  companions'  voices  that  have  hal- 
lowed year  on  year, 
Shall  we  know  an  instant's  grieving  as  we  pass? 

Shall  we  pause  a  fleeting  moment  ere  we  grasp  the 

eager  hands, 
Take  one  last  long  look  of  wonder  at  the  dimming  of 

the  lands, 


EPITAPH  117 

Love  the  earth  one  glowing  moment  ere  we,  pass 

from  its  demands, 
Cull  all  beauty  in  its  essence  as  we  gaze? 

Or  with  not  one  backward  longing  shall  we  leap  the 

last  abyss, 
Scale  the  highest  crags  glad-hearted,  fearful  only 

lest  the  bliss 
Of  an  earth-remembering  instant  should  delay  the 

great  sun's  kiss  — 

Consuming  us  within  the  splendor  of  the  flame? 
Dorothea  Lawrance  Mann 


EPITAPH 

That  my  great  friend  should  lie 

Blind  to  the  morning  sky, 

The  bold,  persistent  glory  of  the  sun; 

That  men  should  say, 

"  Brave  was  his  day, 

Yet  now  his  day  is  done," 

Is  the  true  grief  I  bear  .  . . 

Not  for  my  selfish  share 

In  his  keen  mind,  high  heart,  courageous 

life; 

Sorrow  he  may  not  be 
With  earth's  bright  revelry, 
In  love,  in  strife. 

Yet,  while  abiding  here, 

He  left  with  me  good  cheer, 

Calmly  he  met  the  darkness  and  the  end ; 


n8  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

So  on  his  tomb  I  lay 
The  wealth  of  yesterday, 
That  none  may  spend. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 

HIS  OWNE  EPITAPH 

Eternal  rest  on  him  bestowe, 
O  Lord,  and  everlastynge  light, 
Who  lacked  withal  for  sup  or  bite, 

Shorn  close  on  scalp  and  chin  and  browe, 

Who  was  scrap't  bare  and  smooth,  I  trowe 
As  any  turnip  round,  poor  wighte : 

Eternal  rest  on  him  bestowe. 

Hard  doome  befell  him  here  belowe, 
Drove  forth  and  smote  him  in  sore  spite, 
Though  "I  appeal!"  he  cried  with  mighte, 

A  form  of  speech  that 's  playne  enowe : 

Eternal  rest  on  him  bestowe. 

Franfois  Villon 
Translated  by  Wilfrid  Thorley 

THE  FLIGHT 

Upon  a  cloud  among  the  stars  we  stood : 
The  angel  raised  his  hand,  and  looked,  and  said, 
"Which  world,  of  all  yon  starry  myriad 
Shall  we  make  wing  to?"  The  still  solitude 
Became  a  harp  whereon  his  voice  and  mood 
Made  spheral  music  round  his  haloed  head. 
I  spake  —  for  then  I  had  not  long  been  dead  — 
"Let  me  look  round  upon  the  vasts,  and  brood 
A  moment  on  these  orbs  ere  I  decide. . . . 


A  QUESTION  119 

What  is  yon  lower  star  that  beauteous  shines 
And  with  soft  splendor  now  incarnadines 
Our  wings?  —  There  would  I  go  and  there  abide." 
Then  he,  as  one  who  some  child's  thought  divines: 
"  That  is  the  world  where  yesternight  you  died." 

Lloyd  Mifflin 

A  QUESTION 

See  proud  monuments  of  every  shape  and  size, 
Or  deep  in  earth,  or  soaring  to  the  skies, 
Scattered  profusely  over  Earth's  broad  crust, 
Fair,  hollow  caskets  holding  naught  but  Dust. 

'T  is  strange  how  hard  Men  strive 

To  keep  alive, 

Tn  every  age  and  under  every  clime, 

The  memory  of  the  Dead; 

Or  from  the  gnawing  tooth  of  Time, 

Save  the  frail  body,  whence  that  Life  has  fled. 

Is  it  Men  feel  that  Death  is  something  real? 
Something  that  will  endure,  —  and  are  they  sure 
That  after  Death's  sharp  pain  they  rest,  — 
Nor  dream  another  Life's  tumultuous  Dream 
again? 

If  Man,  instead  of  dying,  at  once  flies 

To  happier  worlds  and  fairer  skies, 

Why,  then,  proud  monuments  of  every  shape  and 

size? 
Why  mournful  sables  and  sad  weeping  eyes? 

Elihu  Vedder 


120  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

THE  SCEPTICS 
It  was  the  little  leaves  beside  the  road : 

Said  Grass,  "What  is  that  sound 

So  dismally  profound, 

That  detonates  and  desolates  the  air?" 

"That  is  St.  Peter's  bell," 

Said  rain- wise  Pimpernel; 

"  He  is  music  to  the  godly, 

Though  to  us  he  sounds  so  oddly, 

And  he  terrifies  the  faithful  unto  prayer." 

Then  something  very  like  a  groan 
Escaped  the  naughty  little  leaves. 

Said  Grass,  "And  whither  track 

These  creatures  all  in  black, 

So  woebegone  and  penitent  and  meek?" 

"They're  mortals  bound  for  church," 

Said  the  little  Silver  Birch; 

"They  hope  to  get  to  heaven 

And  have  their  sins  forgiven, 

If  they  talk  to  God  about  it  once  a  week." 

And  something  very  like  a  smile 
Ran  through  the  naughty  little  leaves. 

Said  Grass,  "What  is  that  noise 

That  startles  and  destroys 

Our  blessed  summer  —  brooding  when 

we're  tired?" 

"That's  folk  a-praising  God," 
Said  the  tough  old  cynic  Clod; 


'10  VICTIS"  121 


"They  do  it  every  Sunday, 

They'll  be  all  right  on  Monday; 

It's  just  a  little  habit  they've  acquired." 

And  laughter  spread  among  the  little  leaves. 

Bliss  Carman 

"IO  VICTIS" 

I  sing  the  hymn  of  the  conquered,  who  fell  in  the 

Battle  of  Life,  - 
The  hymn  of  the  wounded,  the  beaten,  who  died 

overwhelmed  in  the  strife; 
Not  the  jubilant  song  of  the  victors,  for  whom  the 

resounding  acclaim 
Of  nations  was  lifted  in  chorus,  whose  brows  wore 

the  chaplet  of  fame,  — 
But  the  hymn  of  the  low  and  the  humble,  the  weary, 

the  broken  in  heart, 
Who  strove  and  who  failed,  acting  bravely  a  silent 

and  desperate  part; 
Whose  youth  bore  no  flower  on  its  branches,  whose 

hopes  burned  in  ashes  away, 
From  whose  hands  slipped  the  prize  they  had 

grasped  at,  who  stood  at  the  dying  of  day 
With  the  wreck  of  their  life  all  around  them,  un- 

pitied,  unheeded,  alone, 
With  Death  sweeping  down  o'er  their  failure,  and 

all  but  their  faith  overthrown. 

While  the  voice  of  the  world  shouts  its  chorus.  — 
its  paean  for  those  who  have  won; 

While  the  trumpet  is  sounding  triumphant,  and 
high  to  the  breeze  and  the  sun 


122  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Glad  banners  are  waving,  hands  clapping,  and 
hurrying  feet 

Thronging  after  the  laurel-crowned  victors,  I  stand 
on  the  field  of  defeat  — 

In  the  shadow,  with  those  who  have  fallen,  and 
wounded,  and  dying,  and  there 

Chant  a  requiem  low,  place  my  hand  on  their  pain- 
knotted  brows,  breathe  a  prayer, 

Hold  the  hand  that  is  helpless,  and  whisper, 
"They  only  the  victory  win, 

Who  have  fought  the  good  fight,  and  have  van- 
quished the  demon  that  tempts  us  within; 

Who  have  held  to  their  faith  unseduced  by  the 
prize  that  the  world  holds  on  high; 

Who  have  dared  for  a  high  cause  to  suffer,  resist, 
fight,  —  if  need  be,  to  die." 

Speak,  History!  Who  are  Life's  victors?  Unroll 
thy  long  annals,  and  say, 

Are  they  those  whom  the  world  called  the  victors  — 
who  won  the  success  of  a  day? 

The  martyrs,  or  Nero?  The  Spartans  who  fell  at 
Thermopylae's  tryst, 

Or  the  Persians  and  Xerxes?  His  judges  or  Socra- 
tes? Pilate  or  Christ? 

William  Wetmore  Story 


VILLON'S  REGRETS 

Francois  Villon,  being  about  to  die,  a  worthy  friar  would 
fain  have  shriven  him,  and  did  earnestly  exhort  him  to 
confess  those  acts  of  his  life  which  he  did  regret.  Villon 
bade  him  return  again  when  he  might  have  had  time  to 


VILLON'S  REGRETS  123 

bethink  him  of  his  sins.  Upon  the  good  father's  return, 
Villon  was  dead;  but  by  his  side  were  the  following  verses, 
his  last,  wherein  he  set  forth  those  things  which  he  did 
regret. 

I,  FRANCOIS  VILLON,  ta'en  at  last 
To  the  rude  bed  where  all  must  lie, 
Fain  would  forget  the  turbid  past 
And  lay  me  down  in  peace  and  die. 
Would  I  be  shrived?  Ah  —  can  I  tell? 
My  sins  but  trifles  seem  to  be, 
Nor  worth  the  dignity  of  Hell ; 
If  not,  then  ill  avails  it  me 
To  count  them  one  and  all  —  and  yet  — 
There  be  some  things  which  I  regret  1 

The  sack  of  abbeys,  many  a  brawl, 
A  score  of  knife-thrusts  in  the  dark, 
Forced  oft  by  Fate  against  the  wall, 
And  years  in  prison,  cold  and  stark  — 
These  crimes  and  pains  seem  far  away 
Now  that  I  come  at  length  to  die; 
'T  is  idle  for  the  Past  to  pray, 
'Tis  hopeless  for  the  Past  to  sigh; 
These  are  a  troubled  dream  —  and  yet 
For  them  I  have  but  scant  regret ! 

The  toil  my  mother  had  to  know 
What  years  I  lay  im  gyves  for  debt; 
A  pretty  song  heard  years  ago, 
When,  I  know  not;  where,  I  forget; 
The  crust  I  once  kept  for  my  own 
(Though  all  too  scant  for  my  poor  use) ; 


124  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

The  friend  I  left  to  die  alone, 

(Perdiel  The  watchmen  pressed  us  close!) 

Trifles  against  my  crimes  to  set  I 

Yet  these  are  all  which  I  regret. 

Captains  and  cutthroats  not  a  few, 
And  maidens  fair  of  many  a  clime 
Have  named  me  friend  in  the  wild  past 
Whenas  we  wallowed  in  the  slime; 
Gamblers  and  rogues  and  clever  thieves, 
And  unfrocked  priests,  a  sorry  crew  — 
(How  stubbornly  the  memory  cleaves 
To  all  who  have  befriended  you!) 
I  drain  a  cup  to  them,  and  yet  — 
Not  these  the  friends  whom  I  regret ! 

My  foundered  horse,  who  died  for  me 
(Nor  whip  nor  spur  were  his,  I  ween!) 
That  day  the  hangman  looked  to  see 
Poor  Villon  earth  and  sky  between ! 
A  mongrel  cur  who  shared  my  lot 
Three  bitter  winters  on  the  Isle: 
He  held  the  rabble  off,  God  wot  1 
One  time  I  cheated  in  the  deal. 
*T  was  but  an  instant,  but  I  fled 
Down  a  vile  alley  known  to  me  — 
There  in  the  garbage  he  lay  dead ; 
The  gamblers  raged  —  but  I  was  free! 
Humble,  poor  brutes  at  best;  and  yet  — 
They  are  the  friends  whom  I  regret  I 

And  once  the  lilies  were  a-blow 
Through  all  the  sunny  fields  of  France; 


VILLON'S  REGRETS  125 

I  marked  one  whiter  than  the  snow, 
And  would  have  gathered  it,  perchance, 
Had  not  some  trifle  I  forget, 
A  Bishop's  loot,  a  cask  of  wine 
Purloined  from  some  auberge  —  a  bet  — 
Distracted  this  wild  head  of  mine; 
A  childish  fancy  this,  and  yet  — 
It  is  this  thing  which  I  regret. 

Again,  I  rode  through  Picardy 
What  time  the  vine  was  in  the  bud ; 
A  little  maiden  smiled  on  me, 
I  might  have  kissed  her,  an'  I  would  I 
I  've  known  a  thousand  maidens  since, 
And  many  have  been  kind  to  me  — 
I've  never  seen  one  quite  so  fair 
As  she,  that  day  in  Picardy; 
Ashes  of  roses  these,  and  yet  — 
They  are  the  things  which  I  regret. 

One  perfect  lily  grew  for  me, 

And  blossomed  on  another's  breast; 

Others  have  clasped  the  little  hands 

Whose  rosy  palms  I  might  have  pressed: 

So  as  I  die,  my  wasted  youth 

Mocks  my  dim  eyes  and  fading  breath  -— 

Still,  I  have  lived !  And  having  lived 

That  much  is  mine  —  I  mock  at  Death. 

I  should  confess,  you  say.  But  yet  — 

Only  for  Life  have  I  regret  1 

L'ENVOI 

O  bubbles  of  the  vanished  wine 
To  which  my  lips  were  never  set  I 


126  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

O  lips  that  dimpled  close  to  mine, 
Whose  ruddy  warmth  I  never  met ! 
Father,  poor  trifles  these,  and  yet  — 
They  are  the  things  which  I  regret  I 

John  D.  Swain 

A  DEAD  MARCH 

Play  me  a  march,  low-toned  and  slow  —  a  march 

for  a  silent  tread, 
Fit  for  the  wandering  feet  of  one  who  dreams  of  the 

silent  dead, 
Lonely,  between  the  bones  below  and  the  souls  that 

are  overhead. 

Here  for  a  while  they  smiled  and  sang,  alive  in  the 

interspace, 
Here  with  the  grass  beneath  the  foot,  and  the  stars 

above  the  face, 
Now  are  their  feet  beneath  the  grass,  and  whither 

has  flown  their  grace? 

Who  shall  assure  us  whence  they  come,  or  tell  us 

the  way  they  go? 
Verily,  life  with  them  was  joy  and,  now  they  have 

left  us,  woe. 
Once  they  were  not,  and  now  they  are  not,  and  this 

is  the  stun  we  know. 

Orderly  range  the  seasons  due,  and  orderly  roll  the 

stars. 
How  shall  we  deem  the  soldier  brave  who  frets  of 

his  wounds  and  scars? 
Are  we  as  senseless  brutes  that  we  should  dash  at 

the  well-seen  bars? 


A  DEAD  MARCH  127 

No,  we  are  here,  with  feet  unfixed,  but  ever  as  if 

with  lead, 
Drawn  from  the  orbs  which  shine  above  to  the  orb 

on  which  we  tread, 
Down  to  the  dust  from  which  we  came  and  with 

which  we  shall  mingle  dead. 

No,  we  are  here  to  wait,  and  work,  and  strain  our 

banished  eyes, 
Weary  and  sick  of  soil  and  toil,  and  hungry  and 

fain  for  skies, 
Far  from  the  reach  of  wingless  men,  and  not  to  be 

scaled  with  cries. 

No,  we  are  here  to  bend  our  necks  to  the  yoke  of 

tyrant  Time, 
Welcoming  all  the  gifts  he  gives  us  —  glories  of 

youth  and  prime, 
Patiently  watching  them  all  depart  as  our  heads 

grow  white  as  rime. 

Why  do  we  mourn  the  days  that  go  —  for  the  same 

sun  shines  each  day, 
Ever  a  Spring  her  primrose  hath,  and  ever  a  May 

her  may; 
Sweet  as  the  rose  that  died  last  year  is  the  rose  that 

is  born  to-day. 

Do  we  not,  too,  return,  we  men,  as  ever  the  round 

earth  whirls? 
Never  a  head  is  dimmed  with  gray  but  another  is 

sunned  with  curls; 
She  was  a  girl  and  he  was  a  boy,  but  yet  there  are 

boys  and  girls. 


128  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Ah,  but  alas !  for  the  smile  of  smiles  that  never  but 

one  face  wore; 
Ah,  for  the  voice  that  has  flown  away  like  a  bird  to 

an  unseen  shore; 
Ah,  for  the  face  —  the  flower  of  flowers  —  that 

blossoms  on  earth  no  more. 

Cosmo  Monkhouse 


THE  PIPES  O'  GORDON'S  MEN 

Home  comes  a  lad  with  the  bonny  hair, 

And  the  kilted  plaid  that  the  hill-clans  wear; 

And  you  hear  the  mother  say : 

"  Whear  ha*  ye  ben,  wee  Laddie;  whear  ha'  ye  ben 

th'  day?" 

"O!  I  ha*  ben  wi'  Gordon's  men; 
Dinna  ye  hear  th'  bagpipes  play? 
And  I  followed  th'  soldiers  across  th'  green, 
And  doon  th'  road  tae  Aberdeen. 
And  when  I  'm  a  mon,  my  Mither, 
And  th'  Hielanders  parade, 
I'll  be  marchin'  there,  wi'  my  feyther's  pipes, 
And  I'll  wear  th'  red  cockade."    ' 

Beneath  the  Soudan's  sky  ye  ken  the  smoke, 
As  the  clans  reply  when  the  tribesmen  spoke. 
Then  the  charge  roars  by ! 
The  death-sweat  clings  to  the  kilted  form  that  the 

stretcher  brings, 

And  the  iron-nerved  surgeons  say : 
"Whear  ha'  ye  ben,  my  Laddie;  whear  ha'  ye  ben 

th'  day?" 
"O,  I  ha*  ben  wi'  Gordon's  men; 


AT  THE  TOP  OF  THE  ROAD          129 

Dinna  ye  hear  th'  bagpipes  play? 
An'  I  piped  th'  clans  from  the  river  barge 
Across  the  sands,  an'  through  the  charge. 
An*  I  —  skirled  —  th'  pibroch  —  keen  —  an'  high, 
But  th'  pipes  —  ben  broke  —  an'  —  my  —  lips  — 
ben  —  dry." 

CORONACH 

Upon  the  hill-side,  high  and  steep, 
Where  rank  on  rank  the  soldiers  sleep,  — \ 
Where  the  silent  cannons  beside  the  path, 
Point  the  last  forced-march  that  the  soldier 

hath,  — 

Where  the  falling  grave-grass  has  partly  hid 
The  round-shot,  heaped  in  a  pyramid  — 
A  white  stone  rises ;  across  its  face 
You  can  read  the  words  that  the  chisels  trace: 
"Whear  ha'  ye  ben,  wee  Laddie;  whear  ha'  ye 

ben  th'  day?" 

"O,  I  ha'  ben  wi'  Gordon's  men; 
Dinna  ye  hear  th'  bagpipes  play?" 

J.  Scott  Glasgow 

AT  THE  TOP  OF  THE  ROAD 

"But,  Lord,"  she  said,  "my  shoulders  still  are 

strong  — 
I  have  been  used  to  bear  the  load  so  long; 

"And  see,  the  hill  is  passed,  and  smooth  the 

road .  .  ." 
"Yet"  said   the  Stranger,  ''yield  me  now   thy 

load.". 


130  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Gently  he  took  it  from  her,  and  she  stood 
Straight-limbed  and  lithe,  in  new-found  maiden- 
hood, 

Amid  long,  sunlit  fields;  around  them  sprang 
A  tender  breeze,  and  birds  and  rivers  sang. 

"My  Lord,"  she  said,  "the  land  is  very  fair!" 
Smiling,  he  answered:  "Was  it  not  so  there?" 

"There?"  In  her  voice  a  wondering  question  lay: 
"Was  I  not  always  here,  then,  as  to-day?" 

He  turned  to  her  with  strange,  deep  eyes  aflame : 
"  Knowest  thou  not  this  kingdom,  nor  my  name?" 

"Nay,"  she  replied:  "but  this  I  understand  — 
That  thou  art  Lord  of  Life  in  this  dear  land!" 

"  Yea,  'Child,"  he   murmured,  scarce   above   his 

breath: 
"Lord  of  the  Land!  but  men  have  named  me 

Death.". 

Charles  Buxton  Going 


AFTERWARDS 

I  know  that  these  poor  rags  of  womanhood,  — 
This  oaten  pipe,  whereon  the  wild  winds  played 
Making  sad  music,  —  tattered  and  outfrayed, 
Cast  off,  played  out,  —  can  hold  no  more  of 

good, 
Of  love,  or  song,  or  sense  of  sun  and  shade. 


WHEN  SHE  CAME  TO  GLORY        131 

What  homely  neighbors  elbow  me  (hard  by 
'Neath  the  black  yews)  I  know  I  shall  not  know, 
Nor  take  account  of  changing  winds  that  blow, 
Shifting  the  golden  arrow,  set  on  high 
On  the  gray  spire,  nor  mark  who  come  and  go. 

Yet  would  I  lie  in  some  familiar  place, 

Nor  share  my  rest  with  uncongenial  dead,  — 

Somewhere,  maybe,  where  friendly  feet  will 

tread,  — 

As  if  from  out  some  little  chink  of  space 
Mine  eyes  might  see  them  tripping  overhead. 

And  though  too  sweet  to  deck  a  sepulcher 
Seem  twinkling  daisy-buds  and  meadow-grass; 
And  so  would  more  than  serve  me,  lest  they  pass 
Who  fain  would  know  what  woman  rested  there, 
What  her  demeanor,  or  her  story  was,  — 

For  these  I  would  that  on  a  sculptured  stone 
(Fenced  'round  with  iron  work  to  keep  secure) 
Should  sleep  a  form  with  folded  palms  demure, 
In  aspect  like  the  dreamer  that  was  gone, 
With  these  words  carved:  "/  hoped,  but  was 
not  sure." 

Violet  Fane 

WHEN  SHE  CAME  TO  GLORY 

Nay,  loose  my  hand  and  let  me  go ! 
God's  glories  pierce  and  frighten. 
I  want  my  house,  my  fires,  my  bread, 
My  sheets  to  wash  and  whiten. 


132  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  liked  the  dusty  roads  of  earth, 
The  brambles  and  the  roaming; 
I  liked  the  flowers  that  used  to  fade, 
The  small  lamp  in  the  gloaming. 

The  fields  of  God,  they  blind  my  eyes. 
Dread  is  this  heavenly  tillage. 
I  want  the  sweet,  lost  homeliness 
Of  the  door-yards  of  our  village. 

Where  are  the  accustomed,  common 

things  — 

The  cups  we  drank  together; 
The  old  shoes  that  he  laced  for  me, 
The  cape  for  rainy  weather? 

Dear  were  our  stumbling,  human  ways, 
His  words'  impetuous  flurry, 
His  tossed  hair,  the  kind,  anxious  brow, 
His  steps'  too-eager  hurry. 

O  tall  archangel  with  such  wings, 
Your  beauty  is  too  burning ! 
Give  me  once  more  my  threadbare  dress 
And  the  sound  of  his  feet  returning. 

Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 


HERACLITUS 

They  told  me,  Heraclitus,  they  told  me  you  were 

dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter 

tears  to  shed. 


"  'T  IS  ALL  AND  NOTHING  "          133 

I  wept  as  I  remember'd  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down 
the  sky. 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian 

guest, 

A  handful  of  grey  ashes,  long,  long  ago  at  rest, 
Still   are   thy   pleasant  voices,   thy  nightingales, 

awake ; 
For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them  he  cannot 

take. 

William  Johnson  Cory 

"'TIS  ALL  AND  NOTHING" 

Writ  on  a  ruined  palace  in  Kashmir: 
"The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near." 

Where  are  the  voices  kings  were  glad  to  hear  ? 
Where  now  the  feast,  the  song,  the  bayadere? 
The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 

And  yonder  lovely  rose;  alas!  my  dear! 
See  the  November  garden,  rank  and  drear. 
The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 

See!  how  the  rain-drop  mingles  with  the  mere. 
Mark!  how  the  age  devours  each  passing  year. 
The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 

Forms  rise  and  grow  and  wane  and  disappearf 
The  life  allotted  thee  is  now  and  here:  — 
The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 


134  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Then  vex.  thyself  no  more  with  thought  austere 
Take  what  thou  canst  while  thou  abidest  here,  j 
Seek  finer  pleasures  each  returning  year :  — 
The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 

Joy  is  the  Lord,  and  Love  His  charioteer; 
Be  tranquil  and  rejoicing;  oh,  my  dear! 
Shun  the  wild  seas,  far  from  the  breakers  steer; 
The  end  is  Vision,  and  the  end  is  near. 

Ah!  banish  hope  and  doubt,  regret  and  fear, 
Check  the  gay  laugh,  but  dry  the  idle  tear. 
Search!  Is  the  light  within  thee  burning  clear? 
The  end  is  Vision  and  the  end  is  near. 

List  to  the  wisdom  learn' d  of  saint  and  seer! 
The  living  Lord  is  joy,  and  peace  His  sphere; 
Rebel  no  more!  throw  down  thy  shield  and  spear, 
Surrender  all  thyself;  true  life  is  here  ; 
The  end  is  Vision,  and  the  end  is  near. 

Forget  not  this,  forget  not  that,  my  dear! 
'T  is  all  and  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 

Anonymous 

"HINC  NOSTRE  LACRI1NOE" 

'T  was  ever  so  — 

The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave  — 

Are  first  to  go ! 

The  holt  and  blind 

In  all  the  days  and  ages  gone 

Remain  behind! 


BREAKING  THE  SILENCE  135 

They  venture  far 

Who  gird  at  fate  and  death  to  gain 

The  blazing  star! 

Yet  shall  they  glow 

In  constellations  vast,  above 

The  earthly  show! 

So  rest  our  tears 

To  nourish  memories  green 

T,hrough  waiting  years, 

While  in  the  sky 

Shine  they  forever  in  the  golden  light 

Who  dared  to  die  I 

Don  C.  Seitz 


BREAKING  THE  SILENCE 

If  I  should  fall  asleep  one  day, 

All  overworn, 

And  should  my  spirit  from  the  clay 
Go  dreaming  out  the  Heavenward  way, 

Or  thence  be  softly  borne,  — 

I  pray  you,  angels,  do  not  first 

Assail  mine  ear 

With  that  blest  anthem  oft  rehearsed,  — 
"Behold  the  bonds  of  Death  are  burst,"  - 

Lest  I  should  faint  with  fear. 

But  let  some  happy  bird  at  hand 
The  silence  break: 


136  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

So  shall  I  dimly  understand 
That  dawn  has  touched  a  blossoming  land, 
And  sigh  myself  awake. 

From  that'deep  rest  emerging  so 

To  lift  the  head 

And  see  the  bath-flower's  bell  of  snow,  • 
The  pink  Arbutus,  and  the  low 

Spring-beauty  streaked  with  red, 

Will  all  suffice  —  no  other  where 

Impelled  to  roam,  — 
Till  some  blithe  wanderer,  passing  fair, 
Will  smiling  pause,  of  me  aware, 

And  murmur,  "Welcome  home!" 

So,  sweetly  greeted,  I  shall  rise 

To  kiss  her  cheek; 
Then  lightly  soar  in  lovely  guise, 
As  one  familiar  with  the  skies, 

Who  finds,  and  need  not  seek. 

Amanda  T.  Jones 


AT  SUNSET 

To  all  who  went  adventuring  at  the  last, 
And  to  new  voyages  at  sunset  passed, 
Too  brave  at  heart,  too  high  of  hope  to  see 
Their  sky  horizoned  by  mortality : 
Ossian  who  left  the  ease  that  age  had  earned 
That  he  might  win  to  where  the  Fenians  burned ; 
And  him  who  found  new  hopes  invincible 
Because  the  sea  had  something  yet  to  tell; 


THE  DEPARTED  FRIEND  137 

And  many  another  one  who,  scorning  death, 
Went  forth  enkindling  with  his  latest  breath 
To  glory  and  a  never-dying  flame, 
The  funeral  pyre  that  lights  a  hero  name :  — 
These  lines  I  consecrate  that  they  may  aid 
Me  when  I  go  upon  that  last  crusade, 
For  though  the  West  be  grey  and  no  light  linger 
Where  beckoned  once  the  sunset's  flickering  fin- 
ger, 

No  business  of  the  earth  will  hold  me  back 
From  seeking  out  where  they  have  found  a  track. 
I  will  launch  forth  elate,  and  leave  again 
These  little  harbours  and  the  ways  of  men, 
And  light  again  all  that  old  Western  fire 
With  the  red  sunset  of  my  last  desire. 

Seumas  O'Sullivan 

THE  DEPARTED  FRIEND 

He  is  not  dead,  this  friend,  not  dead, 
But  in  the  path  we  mortals  tread, 
Got  some  few  trifling  steps  ahead 

And  nearer  to  the  end,  — 
So  that  you,  too,  once  past  the  bend 
Shall  meet  again,  as,  face  to  face,  this  friend 

You  fancy  dead. 

Push  gaily  on,  strong  heart,  the  while 
You  travel  forward,  mile  by  mile, 
He  loiters  with  a  backward  smile 

Till  you  can  overtake,  — 
And  strains  his  eyes  to  search  his  wake, 
Or,  whistling  as  he  sees  you  through  the  break, 

Waits  on  a  stile. 


138  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Though  he  that  ever  kind  and  true 
Kept  stoutly  step  by  step  with  you 
Your  whole,  long,  gusty  life-time  through 

Be  gone  awhile  before, 
But  now  a  moment  gone  before,  — 
Yet  doubt  not  soon  the  seasons  shall  restore 

Your  friend  to  you. 

He  has  but  turned  a  corner;  still 
He  pushes  on  with  right  good  will, 
Through  mire  and  marsh,  through  heugh  and 

hill, 

That  selfsame,  arduous  way, 
That  selfsame,  upland,  helpful  way, 
That  you  and  he  through  many  a  doubtful  day 
Attempted  still. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

UP-HILL 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow,  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  waiting  at  that  door. 


WITH  THE  TIDE  139 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti 

WITH  THE  TIDE 
(Written  on  the  day  after  Theodore  Roosevelt's  death) 

Somewhere  I  read,  in  an  old  book  whose  name 
Is  gone  from  me,  I  read  that  when  the  days 
Of  a  man  are  counted,  and  his  business  done, 
There  comes  up  the  shore  at  evening,  with  the  tide, 
To  .the  place  where  he  sits,  a  boat  — 
And  in  the  boat,  from  the  place  where  he  sits,  he 

sees, 

Dim  in  the  dusk,  dim  and  yet  so  familiar, 
The  faces  of  his  friends  long  dead ;  and  knows 
They  come  for  him,  brought  in  upon  the  tide, 
To  take  him  where  men  go  at  set  of  day. 
Then  rising,  with  his  hands  in  theirs,  he  goes 
Between  them  his  last  steps,  that  are  the  first 
Of  the  new  life  —  and  with  the  ebb  they  pass, 
Their  shaken  sail  grown  small  upon  the  moon. 

Often  I  thought  of  this,  and  pictured  me 

How  many  a  man  who  lives  with  throngs  about 

him, 

Yet  straining  through  the  twilight  for  that  boat, 
Shall  scarce  make  out  one  figure  in  the  stern, 
And  that  so  faint,  its  features  shall  perplex  him 
With  doubtful  memories,  and  his  heart  hang  back. 


140  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

But  others,  rising  as  they  see  the  sail 
Increase  upon  the  sunset,  hasten  down, 
Hands  out  and  eyes  elated ;  for  they  see, 
Head  over  head,  crowding  from  bow  to  stern, 
Re-peopling  their  long  loneliness  with  smiles, 
The  faces  of  their  friends;  and  such  go  forth 
Content  upon  the  ebb  tide,  with  safe  hearts. 

But  never 

To  worker  summoned  when  his  day  was  done 

Did  mounting  tide  bring  in  such  freight  of  friends 

As  stole  to  you  up  the  white  wintry  shingle, 

That  night  while  they  that  watched  you  thought  you 

slept. 

Softly  they  came,  and  beached  the  boat,  and  gath- 
ered 

In  the  still  cove  under  the  icy  stars, 
Your  last-born,  and  the  dear  loves  of  your  heart, 
And  all  men  that  have  loved  right  more  than  ease, 
And  honour  above  honours;  all  who  gave 
Free-handed  of  their  best  for  other  men, 
And  thought  their  giving  taking,  they  who  knew 
Man's  natural  state  is  effort,  up  and  up  — 
All  these  were  there,  so  great  a  company 
Perchance  you  marvelled,  wondering  what  great 

ship 

Had  brought  that  throng  unnumbered  to  the  cove 
Where  the  boys  used  to  beach  their  light  canoe 
After  old  happy  picnics  — 

But  these,  your  friends  and  children,  to  whose 

hands 
Committed,  in  the  silent  night  you  rose 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE  141 

And  took  your  last  faint  steps  — 
These  led  you  down,  O  great  American, 
Down  to  the  winter  night  and  the  white  beach, 
And  there  you  saw  that  the  huge  hull  that 

waited 

Was  not  as  are  the  boats  of  the  other  dead, 
Frail  craft  for  a  brief  passage;  no,  for  this 
Was  first  of  a  long  line  of  towering  transports, 
Storm-worn  and  ocean-weary  every  one, 
The  ships  you  launched,  the  ships  you  manned, 

the  ships 

That  now,  returning  from  their  sacred  quest 
With  the  thrice-sacred  burden  of  their  dead, 
Lay  waiting  there  to  take  you  forth  with  them, 
Out  with  the  ebb  tide,  on  some  farther  quest. 

Edith  Wharton 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

God,  the  Master  Pilot  — 

Or  Gods,  if  such  there  be  — 
Pour  me  no  weakling's  measure 

When  ye  pour  the  wine  for  me, 
Of  pain,  of  love,  of  pleasure  — 

I'll  drain  the  draught  ye  give; 
Of  good  and  ill,  give  me  the  fill 

Of  the  life  ye  bade  me  live. 

Spare  me  no  tithe  of  favor, 
With  fortune  pave  my  path, 

Nor  hold  the  hand  of  vengeance 
When  I  deserve  your  wrath. 


142  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Whatever  fates  ye  send  me, 

Whatever  cast  the  sky, 
Grant  me  the  grace  to  live  a  man, 

And  as  a  man  to  die. 

Upon  the  good  I  render 

Let  shine  your  proudest  sun, 
And  rest  me  in  the  valleys 

When  my  last  trick  is  done. 
For  these,  your  utmost  portions, 

I'll  pay  the  utmost  toll, 
So  this,  my  life,  becomes  the  great 

Adventure  of  my  Soul. 

Major  Kendall  Banning 

WHEN  I  HAVE  GONE  WEIRD  WAYS 

When  I  have  finished  with  this  episode, 

Left  the  hard,  up-hill  road, 

And  gone  weird  ways  to  seek  another  load  — 

O,  friends,  regret  me  not,  nor  weep  for  me, 

Child  of  Infinity. 

Nor  dig  a  grave,  nor  rear  for  me  a  tomb 
To  say  with  lying  writ:  "Here  in  the  gloom, 
He  who  loved  bigness  takes  a  narrow  room, 

Content  to  pillow  here  his  weary  head, 

For  he  is  dead." 

But  give  my  body  to  the  funeral  pyre, 

And  bid  the  laughing  fire, 

Eager  and  strong  and  swift,  like  my  desire, 

Scatter  my  subtle  essence  into  space  — 

Free  me  of  time  and  place. 


ROOM  FOR  A  SOLDIER  1  143 

And  sweep  the  bitter  ashes  from  the  hearth, 
Fling  back  the  dust  I  borrowed  from  the  earth 
Into  the  chemic  broil  of  death  and  birth: 

The  vast  alembic  of  the  cryptic  scheme, 

Warm  with  the  master-dream. 

And  thus,  —  O  little  house  that  sheltered  me, 
Dissolve  again  in  wind  and  rain,  to  be 
Part  of  the  cosmic  weird  economy. 
And  O !  how  oft  with  new  life  shalt  thou  lift 
Out  of  the  atom-drift! 

John  G.  Neihardt 


ROOM  FOR  A  SOLDIER! 

Room  for  a  soldier!  Lay  him  in  the  clover, 
He  loved  the  fields  and  they  shall  be  his  cover: 
Make  his  mound  with  hers  who  called  him  once 

her  lover: 

Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 
Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 

Bear  him  to  no  dismal  tomb  under  city  churches; 
Take  him  to  the  fragrant  fields,  by  the  silver 

birches, 
Where  the  whippoorwill  shall  mourn,  where  the 

oriole  perches : 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it, 
Where  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  rain  will  rain  upon  it. 


144  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Busy  as  the  busy  bee,  his  rest  should  be  the  clover; 
Gentle  as  a  lamb  was  he,  and  the  fern  should  be  his 

cover; 
Fern  and  rosemary  shall  grow  my  soldier's  pillow 

over: 

Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 
Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 

Sunshine  in  his  heart,  the  rain  would  come  full 

often 
Out  of  those  tender  eyes  which  ever  more  did 

soften : 

He  never  could  look  cold  till  we  saw  him  in  his  cof- 
fin. 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshirw  on  it, 
Where  the  wind  may  sigh  upon  it, 
Where  the  moon  may  stream  upon  it, 
And  Memory  shall  dream  upon  ii. 

"Captain"  or  "Colonel"  —  whatever  invocation 
Suit  our  hymn  the  best,  no  matter  for  thy  station,  — 
On  thy  grave  the  rain  shall  fall  from  the  eyes  of  a 

mighty  nation ! 

Long  as  the  sun  doth  shine  upon  it, 
Shall  glow  the  goodly  pine  upon  it; 
Long  as  the  stars  do  gleam  upon  it 
Shall  Memory  come  to  dream  upon  it. 

Thomas  William  Parsons 


THE  END  OF  ALL  145 

THE  END  OF  ALL 

Blest  are  the  dormant^ 

In  death :  they  repose 

From  bondage  and  torment, 

From  passions  and  woes, 

From  the  yoke  of  the  world  and  the  snares  of 

the  traitor. 
The  grave,  the  grave  is  the  true  liberator. 

Griefs  chase  one  another 

Around  the  earth's  dome: 

In  the  arms  of  the  mother 

Alone  is  our  home. 

Woo  pleasures,  ye  triflers!  The  thoughtful  are 

wiser; 
The  grave,  the  grave  is  their  one  tranquillizer. 

Is  the  good  man  unfriended 

On  life's  ocean-path? 

Where  storms  have  expended 

Their  turbulent  wrath? 

Are  his  labors  requited  by  slander  and  rancor? 

The  grave,  the  grave  is  his  sure  bower-anchor. 

To  gaze  on  the  faces 

Of  lost  ones  anew, 

To  lock  in  embraces 

The  loved  and  the  true, 

Were  a  rapture  to  make  even  Paradise  brighter. 

The  grave,  the  grave  is  the  great  reuniter. 

Crown  the  corpse  then  with  laurels, 
The  conqueror's  wreath, 


146  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Make  joyous  with  carols 

The  chamber  of  death, 

And  welcome  the  victor  with  cymbal  and  psalter  : 

The  grave,  the  grave  is  the  only  exalter. 

James  Clarence  Mangan 

THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH 

He  is  the  despots'  Despot.  All  must  bide, 
Later  or  soon,  the  message  of  his  might; 
Princes  and  potentates  their  heads  must  hide, 
Touched  by  the  awful  sigil  of  his  right; 
Beside  the  Kaiser  he  at  eve  doth  wait 
And  pours  a  potion  in  his  cup  of  state; 
The  stately  Queen  his  bidding  must  obey; 
No  keen-eyed  Cardinal  shall  him  affray; 
And  to  the  Dame  that  wantoneth  he  saith  — 
"Let  be,  Sweet-heart,  to  junket  and  to  play." 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

The  lusty  Lord,  rejoicing  in  his  pride, 
He  draweth  down;  before  the  armed  Knight 
With  jingling  bridle-rein  he  still  doth  ride; 
He  crosseth  the  strong  Captain  in  the  fight ; 
The  Burgher,  grave,  he  beckons  from  debate; 
He  hales  the  Abbot  by  his  shaven  pate, 
Nor  for  the  Abbess'  wailing  will  delay; 
No  bawling  Mendicant  shall  say  him  nay; 
E'en  to  the  pyx  the  Priest  he  followeth, 
Nor  can  the  Leech  his  chilling  ringer  stay  . . . 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

All  things  must  bow  to  him.  And  woe  betide 
The  Wine-bibber,  —  the  Roisterer  by  night; 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH  147 

Him  the  feast-master,  many  bouts  defied, 
Him  'twixt  the  pledging  and  the  cup  shall  smite; 
Woe  to  the  Lender  at  usurious  rate, 
The  hard  Rich  Man,  the  hireling  Advocate; 
Woe  to  the  Judge  that  selleth  Law  for  pay; 
Woe  to  the  Thief  that  like  a  beast  of  prey 
With  creeping  tread  the  traveller  harryeth:  — 
These,  in  their  sin,  the  sudden  sword  shall  slay  . . . 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity,. —  nor  will  be  denied. 

When  the  low  hearth  is  garnished  and  bright, 

Grimly  he  fiingeth  the  dim  portal  wide, 

And  steals  the  Infant  in  the  Mother's  sight; 

He  hath  no  pity  for  the  scorned  of  fate :  — 

He  spares  not  Lazarus  lying  at  the  gate, 

Nay,  nor  the  Blind  that  stumbleth  as  he  may; 

Nay,  the  tired  Ploughman,  —  at  the  sinking  ray,  — 

In  the  last  furrow,  —  feels  an  icy  breath, 

And  knows  a  hand  hath  turned  the  team  astray  . . . 

There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity.  For  the  new-made  Bride, 
Blithe  with  the  promise  of  her  life's  delight, 
That  wanders  gladly  by  her  Husband's  side, 
Pie  with  the  clatter  of  his  drum  doth  fright; 
He  scares  the  Virgin  at  the  convent  grate ; 
The  Maid  half- won,  the  Lover  passionate ; 
He  hath  no  grace  for  weakness  and  decay: 
The  tender  Wife,  the  Widow  bent  and  gray, 
The  feeble  Sire  whose  footstep  faltereth,  — 
All  these  he  leadeth  by  the  lonely  way  .  .  . 
There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 


I48  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

ENVOY 

Youth,  for  whose  ear  and  monishing  of  late, 
I  sang  of  Prodigals  and  lost  estate, 
Have  thou  thy  joy  of  living  and  be  gay; 
But  know  not  less  that  there  must  come  a 

day  — 

Aye,  and  perchance  e'en  now  it  hasteneth,  — 
When  thine  own  heart  shall  speak  to  thee 

and  say,  — 

There  is  no  King  more  terrible  than  Death. 

Austin  Dobson 


MAN'S  GUESS 

Far  beyond  Man's  utmost  sight 

His  daring  mind  pursues  its  flight. 

Yet  ever  ends  where  it  began  —  in  Night. 

The  clear  eyes  of  the  wisest  Sage, 
The  firm  faith  of  the  greatest  Saint; 
One  comes  to  where  his  Eyes  grow  dim, 
The  other  where  his  Faith  grows  faint. 

Scheme  after  scheme  he  vainly  tries, 
Star  after  star  he  sees  arise, 
And  far  beyond  them  in  his  fancy  flies, 
Ever  returning  with  this  vague  surmise 
To  which  he  clings  even  in  darkest  night, 
'T  is  but  a  guess,  - 

"All  things  may  turn  out  right." 
Elihu  Vedder 


THE  PAINTING  149 


MY  OLD  COUNSELOR 

The  Sun  looked  from  his  everlasting  skies, 
He  laughed  into  my  daily-dying  eyes; 
He  said  to  me,  the  brutal  shining  Sun : 
"Poor,  fretful,  hot,  rebellious  little  one  I 

"Thou  shalt  not  find  it,  yet  there  shall  be  truth; 
Thou  shalt  grow  old,  but  yet  there  shall  be  youth; 
Thou  shalt  not  do,  yet  great  deeds  shall  be  done,  — 
Believe  me,  child,  I  am  an  old,  old  Sun! 

"Thou  mayst  go  blind,  yet  fair  will  bloom  the 

spring; 

Thou  mayst  not  hear  them,  but  the  birds  will  sing; 
Thou  mayst  despair,  no  less  will  hope  be  rife; 
Thou  must  lie  dead,  but  many  will  have  life. 

"  Thou  mayst  declare  of  love :  it  is  a  dream ! 
Yet  long  with  love,  my  love,  the  Earth  will  teem: 
Let  not  thy  foolish  heart  be  borne  so  low,  — 
Lift  up  thy  heart!  Exult  that  it  is  so!" 

Gertrude  Hall 


THE  PAINTING 

There  is  a  painting  on  my  wall, 

A  blue  daub  of  the  sea, 

With  a  black  rock  lifting  tall 

And  a  gray  haze  over  all, 

And  the  wind  in  a  bended  tree. 

It  is  a  window  where  my  soul  goes  free ! 


ISO  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Dusk  after  dusk  I  come  into  that  room 

From  the  won  fields  of  life, 

From  the  weary  human  strife, 

And  see  my  painting  like  a  pleasant  bloom, 

Against  the  white  wall  there, 

And  know  God  meant  His  kingdoms  to  be  fair. 

The  towers  and  the  streets  grow  blurred  and  dim, 

I  see  the  world  once  more 

As  it  occurred  to  Him, 

The  clean  sea  and  the  clasping  shore, 

And  the  wind's  hand  shaking  music  from  a  tree ! 

That  is  the  living  universe  to  me; 

The  rest  becomes  a  painted  masque  of  days 

Wherein  I  build  at  golden  make-believe, 

For  purses  and  for  praise, 

And  put  a  solemn  face  upon  it  all 

My  childish  fellow  builders  to  deceive. 

But  here  upon  my  study-wall 

Hangs  the  blue  gate  to  wide  reality, 

The  strong  rock,  and  the  singing  tree, 

And  the  shore  asleep  in  the  water's  arm, 

Like  a  woman  taken  for  her  charm, 

Clasped  by  that  lover  of  all  lands,  the  sea  I 

Impoverished  is  the  Man  who  owns  one  world, 

And  one  alone,  whose  soul  has  never  trod 

The  bold  beginnings  of  the  path  to  God, 

Who  goes  with  ne'er  a  flaming  dream  unfurled 

Along  the  crawling  highways  of  his  kind, 

Clinging  to  vapors  and  to  husks 

With  futile  hands,  half  lost  and  wholly  blind, 

Fearful  of  shadows,  yet  without  the  mind 

To  see  what  stars  may  fleck  his  journey's  dusks. 


PASSAGE  TO  INDIA  151 

To  him  be  pity!  For  his  soul  shall  grope 
In  vain  for  Beauty  and  for  Hope. 

Oh,  that  a  window  such  as  mine 

Might  swing  in  every  wall ! 

With  the  black  rock  lifting  tall 

And  the  wind  like  sweet,  untasted  wine, 

And  the  blown  tree, 

And  the  shore  and  the  sea  1 

Dana  Burnet 

PASSAGE  TO  INDIA 

Singing  my  days ! 

Singing  the  great  achievements  of  the  present, 

The  past  —  the  infinite  greatness  of  the  past  1 

Passage  to  India! 

Lo,  soul,  seest  thou  not  God's  purpose  from  the  first? 
The  earth  to  be  spann'd,  connected  by  network, 
The  races,  neighbours,  to  marry  and  be  given  in 

marriage, 

The  oceans  to  be  cross'd,  the  distant  brought  near, 
The  lands  to  be  welded  together. 

A  worship  new  I  sing, 

You  captains,  voyagers,  explorers,  yours, 

You  engineers,  you  architects,  machinists,  yours, 

You,  not  for  trade  or  transportation  only, 

But  in  God's  name,  and  for  thy  sake  O  soul. 

Ah  more  than  any  priest,  O  soul,  we  too  believe  in 

God, 
But  with  the  mystery  of  God  we  dare  not  dally. 


152  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

0  soul  thou  pleasest  me,  I  thee, 

Sailing  these  seas  or  on  the  hills,  or  waking  in  the 

night, 
Thoughts,  silent  thoughts,  of  Time  and  Space  and 

Death,  like  waters  flowing, 
Bear  me  indeed  as  through  the  regions  infinite, 
Whose  air  I  breathe,  whose  ripples  hear,  lave  me 

all  over. 
Bathe  me  O  God  in  thee,  mounting  to  thee, 

1  and  my  soul  to  range  in  range  of  thee. 

0  Thou  transcendent  1 
Nameless,  the  fibre  and  the  breath, 

Light  of  the  light,  shedding  forth  universes,  thou 

centre  of  them, 
Thou  mightier  centre  of  the  true,  the  good,  the 

loving. 

Thou  moral,  spiritual  fountain  —  affection's  source 
—  thou  reservoir ! 

(O  pensive  soul  of  me  —  O  thirst  unsatisfied  — 
waitest  not  there  — 

Waitest  not  haply  for  us  somewhere  there  the  Com- 
rade perfect?) 

Thou  pulse  —  thou  motive  of  the  stars,  suns,  sys- 
tems, 

That  circling,  move  in  order,  safe,  harmonious, 

Athwart  the  shapeless  vastnesses  of  space ! 

How  should  I  think,  how  breathe  a  single  breath, 
how  speak,  if,  out  of  myself, 

1  could  not  launch,  to  those,  superior  universes? 

Swiftly  I  shrivel  at  the  thought  of  God, 


PASSAGE  TO  INDIA  153 

At  Nature  and  its  wonders,  Time  and  Space  and 

Death, 
But  that  I,  turning,  call  to  thee,  O  soul,  thou  actual 

Me  — 

And  lo,  thou  gently  masterest  the  orbs, 
Thou  matest  Time,  smilest  content  at  Death, 
And  fillest,  swellest  full  the  vastnesses  of  Space. 

Passage !  Immediate  passage !  The  blood  burns  in 

my  veins ! 

Away  O  soul !  Hoist  instantly  the  anchor ! 
Cut  the  hawsers  —  haul  out  —  shake  out  every  sail ! 
Have  we  not  stood  here  like  trees  in  the  ground 

long  enough? 
Have  we  not  grovel'd  here  long  enough,  eating  and 

drinking  like  mere  brutes? 
Have  we  not  darken'd  and  dazed  ourselves  with 

books  long  enough? 

Sail  forth  —  steer  for  the  deep  waters  only ! 
Reckless  O  soul,  exploring,  I  with  thee,  and  thou 

with  me, 
For  we  are  bound  where  mariner  has  not  yet  dared 

to  go, 
And  we  will  risk  the  ship,  ourselves  and  all. 

O  my  brave  soul ! 

O  farther  farther  sail ! 

O  daring  joy,  but  safe !  are  they  not  all  the  seas  of 

God? 
O  farther,  farther,  farther  sail ! 

Walt  Whitman 


154  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

RELIGION 

Creeds  change, 

All  outward  forms 

Recast  themselves. 

Sacred  groves,  temples  and  churches 

Rise  and  rot  and  fall. 

Races  and  nations 

And  the  various  tongues  of  men 

Come  and  go  and  are 

Recorded,  numbered 

And  forgotten  in  the  repetition 

And  the  drift 

Of  many  ages. 

All  outward  circumstances 

May  be  different 

But  there  lives  no  man  — • 

Nor  ever  lived  one  — 

Who,  in  the  silence  of  his  heart, 

Feeling  his  need, 

Has  not  cried  out, 

Shaping  some  prayer 

To  the  unchanging  God. 

Paul  Kester 

PRAYER  AMID  FLAMES 

Holy  Spirit,  I  cry  to  thee. 
Fire  and  Victor-Song  is  thy  name. 
Shine  in  our  need,  oh  spirit  of  power, 
Shine  o'er  the  gulf  of  our  dread  last  hour, 
Burn  into  ashes  our  mortal  frame  1  — 


"GATHER  US  IN"  i$5 

Even  in  death  mine- arms  shall  be 
Outstretched  in  prayer  to  thy  deathless  flame. 
From  the  Swedish  of  Verner  von  H-eidenstam 

(Translated  by  Charles  Wharton  Stork) 

"GATHER  US  IN" 

Rend  each  man's  temple  veil  and  bid  it  fall, 
Gather  our  rival  faiths  within  thy  fold ! 

Gather  us  in,  Thou  Love  that  fillest  all ! 
That  we  may  know  that  Thou  hast  been  of  old  — 
Gather  us  in ! 

Gather  us  in !  We  worship  only  Thee ; 

In  varied  names  we  stretch  a  common  hand ; 
In  diverse  forms  a  common  soul  we  see ; 

In  many  ships  we  seek  one  spirit-land  — 
Gather  us  in ! 

Each  sees  one  color  of  Thy  rainbow  light, 
Each  looks  upon  one  tint  and  calls  it  heaven; 

Thou  art  the  fulness  of  our  partial  sight; 
We  are  not  perfect  till  we  find  the  seven  — 
Gather  us  in ! 

Thine  is  the  mystic  light  great  India  craves, 
Thine  is  the  Parsee's  sin-destroying  beam, 

Thine  is  the  Buddhist's  rest  from  tossing  waves, 

Thine  is  the  empire  of  vast  China's  dream  — 

Gather  us  in ! 

Thine  is  the  Roman's  strength  without  his  pride, 
Thine  is  the  Greek's  glad  world  without  its 
graves, 


i$6  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Thine  is  Judea's  law  with  love  beside, 
The  truth  that  centers  and  the  grace  that 
saves  — 

Gather  us  inl 

Some  seek  a  Father  in  the  heavens  above, 

Some  ask  a  human  image  to  adore, 
Some  crave  a  spirit  vast  as  life  and  love : 
Within  Thy  mansions  we  have  all  and  more  — 
Gather  us  in! 

George  Matheson 

DAWN  IN  THE  DESERT 

When  the  first  opal  presage  of  the  morn 
Quickened  the  east,  the  good  Merwan  arose, 
And  by  bis  open  tent-door  knelt  and  prayed. 

Now  in  that  pilgrim  caravan  was  one 

Whose  heart  was  heavy  with  dumb  doubts,  whose 

eyes 

Drew  little  balm  from  slumber.  Up  and  down 
Night-long  he  paced  the  avenues  of  sand 
'Twixt  tent  and  tent,  and  heard  the  jackals 

snarl, 

The  camels  moan  for  water.  This  one  came 
On  Merwan  praying,  and  to  him  outcried  — 
(The  tortured  spirit  bursting  its  sealed  fount 
As  doth  the  brook  on  Damavend  in  spring) 
"How  knowest  thou  that  any  Allah  is?" 
Swift  from  the  sand  did  Merwan  lift  his  face, 
Flung  toward  the  east  an  arm  of  knotted  bronze, 
And  said,  as  upward  shot  a  shaft  of  gold : 


IMMORTALITY  157 

"Dost  need  a  torch  to  show  to  thee  the  dawn?" 
Then  prayed  again. 

When  on  the  desert's  rim 
In  sudden  awful  splendor  stood  the  sun, 
Through  all  that  caravan  there  was  no  knee 
But  bowed  to  Allah. 

Clinton  Scollard 

IMMORTALITY 

Two  caterpillars  crawling  on  a  leaf, 

By  some  strange  accident  in  contact  came; 
Their  conversation,  passing  all  belief, 

Was  that  same  argument,  the  very  same, 
That  has  been  "proed  and  conned,"  from  man  to 

man; 

Yea,  ever  since  this  wondrous  world  began. 
The  ugly  creatures, 

Deaf  and  dumb  and  blind, 
Devoid  of  features 

That  adorn  mankind, 

Were  vain  enough,  in  dull  and  worldly  strife, 
To  speculate  upon  a  future  life. 

The  first  was  optimistic,  full  of  hope  — 
The  second,  quite  dyspeptic,  seemed  to  mope. 
Said  number  one,  "I'm  sure  of  our  salvation." 
Said  number  two,  "I'm  sure  of  our  damnation. 
Our  ugly  forms  alone  would  seal  our  fates, 
And  bar  our  entrance  through  the  golden  gates. 
Suppose  that  death  should  take  us  unawares, 
How  could  we  ever  climb  the  golden  stairs? 
If  maidens  shun  us  as  they  pass  us  by, 
Would  angels  bid  us  welcome  to  the  sky? 


158  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

I  wonder  what  great  crimes  we  have  committed, 
That  leave  us  so  forlorn,  so  unpitied? 

Perhaps  we've  been  ungrateful,  unforgiving, 

'Tis  plain  to  me  life  is  not  worth  the  living." 
"  Come,  come,  cheer  up,"  the  jovial  one  replied  — 
"Let's  take  a  look  upon  the  other  side: 

Suppose  we  cannot  fly  like  moths  and  millers, 

Are  we  to  blame  for  being  caterpillars? 
Will  that  same  God  that  doomed  us  crawl  the  earth, 
A  prey  to  every  bird  that's  given  birth, 

Forgive  our  captor  as  he  eats  and  sings, 

And  damn  poor  us  because  we  have  no  wings? 
If  we  can't  skim  the  air,  like  owl  or  bat, 
The  worm  will  turn  for  a'  that." 

They  argued  through  the  Summer  —  Autumn 
nigh; 

The  ugly  things  composed  themselves  to  die  — 
And  so,  to  make  their  funeral  quite  complete, 
Each  wrapped  him  in  his  little  winding-sheet. 

The  tangled  web  encompassed  them  full  soon  — 

Each  for  his  coffin  made  him  a  cocoon. 
All  through  the  Winter's  chilling  blasts  they  lay, 
Dead  to  the  world,  aye,  dead  as  any  human  clay. 

Lo !  Spring  comes  forth  with  all  her  warmth  and 
love; 

She    brings    sweet    justice    from    the    realms 

above  — 
She   breaks   the   chrysalis  —  she  resurrects   the 

dead  — 
Two  butterflies  ascend,  encircling  her  head. 

And  so,  this  emblem  shall  forever  be 

A  sign  of  Immortality. 

Joseph  Jefferson 


"NO  COWARD  SOUL  IS  MINE"       159 

THE  WISH 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear  — 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 
And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God  — 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

Tennyson 


"NO  COWARD  SOUL  IS  MINE" 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled  sphere : 

I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 


160  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity! 

Life  —  that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I  —  undying  Life  —  have  power  in  Thee ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts:  unutterably  vain; 

Worthless  as  wither'd  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  Thine  infinity; 

So  surely  anchor'd  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  Immortality. 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  Spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates  and  rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  cease  to  be. 

And  Thou  were  left  alone  — 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void: 

Thou  —  Thou  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  Thou  art  may  never  be  destroyed. 

Emily  Bronte 


THE  SECOND  CRUCIFIXION  161 


THE  SECOND  CRUCIFIXION 

Loud  mockers  in  the  roaring  street 
Say  Christ  is  crucified  again : 

Twice  pierced  His  gospel-bearing  feet, 
Twice  broken  His  great  heart  in  vain. 

I  hear,  and  to  myself  I  smile, 

For  Christ  talks  with  me  all  the  while. 

No  angel  now  to  roll  the  stone 
From  off  His  unawaking  sleep, 

In  vain  shall  Mary  watch  alone, 
In  vain  the  soldiers  vigil  keep. 

Yet  while  they  deem  my  Lord  is  dead 
My  eyes  are  on  His  shining  head. 

Ah !  never  more  shall  Mary  hear 
That  voice  exceeding  sweet  and  low 

Within  the  garden  calling  clear : 
Her  Lord  is  gone,  and  she  must  go. 

Yet  all  the  while  my  Lord  I  meet 
In  every  London  lane  and  street. 

Poor  Lazarus  shall  wait  in  vain, 
And  Bartimeus  still  go  blind ; 

The  healing  hem  shall  ne'er  again 
Be  touch'd  by  suffering  humankind. 

Yet  all  the  while  I  see  them  rest, 
The  poor  and  outcast,  on  His  breast. 


1 62  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

No  more  unto  the  stubborn  heart 
With  gentle  knocking  shall  He  plead, 

No  more  the  mystic  pity  start, 
For  Christ  twice  dead  is  dead  indeed: 

So  in  the  street  I  hear  men  say  — 
Yet  Christ  is  with  me  all  the  day. 

Richard  Le  Gcllienne 


A  CONCLUSION 

If  all  the  dream-like  things  are  vain, 
If  all  the  strange  delight  and  pain 

Of  love  and  beauty  cannot  be 

The  heirs  of  immortality,  — 
Then  shall  I  worship  all  the  more 
Those  images  I  now  adore. 

If  all  things  perish,  it  were  best 

To  die  with  beauty,  —  lie  at  rest 
In  her  great  drift  of  ruined  roses, 
With  lovely  songs  to  have  our  closes,  — 

Yea,  as  on  some  transcendent  pyre 

Of  sandalwood,  to  pass  in  fire 
'Mid  broken  alabaster,  whence 
Arise  great  clouds  of  frankincense, 

Carved  ivory  and  sard,  and  robes 

Of  purple  dye,  and  magic  globes 
Of  burning  crystal,  scattered  gems 
Like  flowers,  and  holy  diadems, 

Papyrus  writ  with  perfect  rimes, 

And  lutes  fulfilled  of  tender  chimes, 
And  lucid  cups  all  scriptured  round 
With  slim,  white,  dancing  gods  vine-bound, 


THE  WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG          163 

And  agate  lamps,  whence  tongues  of  light 
Flare  out  into  the  endless  night. 

Rachel  Annand  Taylor 


TEARS 

When  I  consider  Life  and  its  few  years  — 

A  wisp  of  fog  betwixt  us  and  the  sun; 

A  call  to  battle,  and  the  battle  done 

Ere  the  last  echo  dies  within  our  ears; 

A  rose  choked  in  the  grass;  an  hour  of  fears; 

The  gusts  that  past  a  darkening  shore  do  beat; 

The  burst  of  music  down  an  unlistening  street  — 

I  wonder  at  the  idleness  of  tears. 

Ye  old,  old  dead,  and  ye  of  yesternight, 

Chieftains,  and  bards,  and  keepers  of  the  sheep, 

By  every  cup  of  sorrow  that  ye  had, 

Loose  me  from  tears,  and  make  me  see  aright 

How  each  hath  back  what  once  he  stayed  to  weep: 

Homer  his  sight,  David  his  little  lad ! 

Lizette  Wood  worth  Reese 


THE  WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG 

In  a  very  humble  cot, 

In  a  rather  quiet  spot, 

In  the  suds  and  in  the  soap, 
Worked  a  woman  full  of  hope; 

Working,  singing,  all  alone, 

In  a  sort  of  undertone: 

"With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 


1 64  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Sometimes  happening  along, 
I  had  heard  the  semi-song, 
And  I  often  used  to  smile, 
More  in  sympathy  than  guile ; 
But  I  never  said  a  word 
In  regard  to  what  I  heard, 
As  she  sang  about  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Not  in  sorrow  nor  in  glee 
Workir«g  all  day  long  was  she, 
As  her  children,  three  or  four, 
Played  around  her  on  the  floor; 
But  in  monotones  the  song 
She  was  humming  all  day  long : 
"With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

It's  a  song  I  do  not  sing, 

For  I  scarce  believe  a  thing 
Of  the  stories  that  are  told 
Of  the  miracles  of  old ; 

But  I  know  that  her  belief 

Is  the  anodyne  of  grief, 
And  will  always  be  a  friend 
That  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Just  a  trifle  lonesome  she, 
Just  as  poor  as  poor  could  be; 
But  her  spirits  always  rose, 
Like  the  bubbles  in  the  clothes, 
And,  though  widowed  and  alone, 
Cheered  her  with  the  monotone, 


WITH  WHOM  IS  NO  VARIABLENESS     165 

Of  a  Savior  and  a  friend 

Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

I  have  seen  her  rub  and  scrub, 
On  the  washboard  in  the  tub, 
While  the  baby,  sopped  in  suds, 
Rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  duds; 
Or  was  paddling  in  the  pools, 
With  old  scissors  stuck  in  spools; 
She  still  humming  of  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  root  in  human  needs ; 
And  I  should  not  wish  to  strip 
From  that  washerwoman's  lip 
Any  song  that  she  can  sing, 
Any  hope  that  songs  can  bring; 
For  the  woman  has  a  friend 
Who  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Eugene  F.  Ware 


"  WITH  WHOM  IS  NO  VARIABLENESS, 
NEITHER  SHADOW  OF  TURNING" 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 
That  though  I  perish  —  Truth  is  so : 
That  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range  — 
Whate'er  I  do,  Thou  dost  not  change. 
I  steadier  step  when  I  recall 
That,  if  I  slip,  Thou  dost  not  fall. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough 


1 66  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

PIPPA'S  SONG 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn: 
God 's  in  His  heaven  — 
All 's  right  with  the  world ! 

Robert  Browning 

CLEANTHES'  HYMN 

Lead  thou  me,  God,  Law,  Reason,  Motion,  Life, 
All  names  for  Thee  alike  are  vain  and  hollow: 
Lead  me,  for  I  will  follow  without  strife, 
Or  —  if  I  strive,  still  must  I  blindly  follow ! 

Clean thes  the  Stoic 

PRAYER  OF  A  POET  TO  GOD 

Have  mercy,  Thou,  upon  my  soul, 
Unclean  against  Thy  flaming  skies, 

Unchaste  beside  Thy  golden  stole, 
Have  mercy  Thou !  Let  me  arise 

Before  Thy  throne  in  perfect  peace, 

Be  pitiful,  my  soul  release ! 

I  know  that  all  my  days  have  been 
Misspent  in  paths  afar  from  Thee; 

I  know  mine  eyes  have  quickly  seen 
The  things  Thou  wouldst  not  have  me  see, 

That  through  the  thoughtless  years  I  saw 

Uncounted  scenes,  but  not  Thy  law. 


PRAYER  OF  A  POET  TO  GOD        167 

Forgive  the  lies  my  tongue  exclaimed, 
The  heedless  truths  that  slew  the  weak, 

Forgive  the  many  faults  I  blamed, 
Not  on  myself,  but  on  the  meek, 

Forgive,  Divine  and  Gracious  God, 

The  buds  I  broke  upon  Thy  sod  1 

Amazing  is  Thy  mercy,  Lord ! 

Therefore  remember  not  the  times 
My  kisses,  like  a  poisoned  sword, 

Killed  innocence,  awakened  crimes; 
Forgive<my  passions  uncontrolled, 
The  years  I  wandered  from  Thy  fold  I 

My  life  on  scarlet  seas  was  tost, 
I  swore  to  scorn  Thy  gift  of  grace, 

I  gloried  Thou  shouldst  deem  me  lost  — 
Perhaps  I  met  Thee  face  to  face? 

Perhaps  Thy  wings  refreshed  my  brow 

The  while  I  sealed  with  Vice  a  vow? 

I  stood  on  mounts  and  sang  a  song 
In  praise  of  those  that  hate  Thy  name, 

With  laughing  lips  I  did  a  wrong 

That  shamed  the  very  face  of  Shame. 

Thrice  blessed  be  Thy  pity,  God, 

Else  I  should  die  beneath  Thy  rod! 

Thou  gavest  me  a  singing  voice 
To  fill  the  earth  with  loveliness; 

But  I  —  it  made  my  soul  rejoice 

To  make  Thy  children  love  Thee  less, 

Thy  charity  is  boundless  wide, 

Forget,  O  Lord,  my  evil  pride  I 


1 68  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

Have  mercy,  Thou,  upon  my  soul 
Unclean  against  Thy  stainless  skies, 

Unchaste  beside  Thy  golden  stole, 

Have  mercy,  Thou !  My  streaming  eyes 

Reveal  what  hells  lay  in  my  heart 

The  age  I  stood  from  Thee  apart. 

Joseph  Bernard  Re  thy 

EXILE  FROM  GOD 

I  do  not  fear  to  lay  my  body  down 

In  death,  to  share 
The  life  of  the  dark  earth  and  lose  my  own, 

If  God  is  there. 

*> 
I  have  so  loved  all  sense  of  Him,  sweet  might 

Of  color  and  sound,  — 
His  tangible  loveliness  and  living  light  | 

That  robes  me  'round. 

If  to  His  heart  in  the  hushed  grave  and  dim 

We  sink  more  near, 
It  shall  be  well  —  living  we  rest  in  Him. 

Only  I  fear 

Lest  from  my  God  in  lonely  death  I  lapse, 

And  the  dumb  clod 
Lose  Him,  —  for  God  is  life,  and  death,  perhaps, 

Exile  from  God. 

John  Hall  Wheelock 


PASSING  OF  OLD  TRINITY  169 

PASSING  OF  OLD  TRINITY 

(Demolished  seventy  years  ago) 

Farewell!  Farewell!  They're  falling  fast, 

Pillar  and  arch  and  architrave; 
Yon  aged  pile,  to  me  the  last 
Sole  record  of  the  by-gone  past, 

Is  speeding  to  its  grave: 
And  thoughts  from  memory's  fountain  flow, 

(As  one  by  one,  like  wedded  hearts, 

Each  rude  and  mouldering  stone  departs,) 
Of  boyhood's  happiness  and  woe,  — 

Its  sunshine  and  its  shade: 
And  though  each  ray  of  early  gladness 
Comes  mingled  with  the  hues  of  sadness, 

I  would  not  bid  them  fade. 
They  come,  as  come  the  stars  at  night,  — 
Like  fountains  gushing  into  light  — 
And  close  around  my  heart  they  twine, 
Like  ivy  round  the  mountain  pine ! 
Yes,  they  are  gone  —  the  sunlight  smiles 
All  day  upon  its  foot-worn  aisles ; 
Those  foot-worn  aisles,  where  oft  have  trod 
The  humble  worshipers  of  God, 
In  times  long  past,  when  Freedom  first 
From  all  the  land  in  glory  burst ! 

The  heroic  few!  From  him  whose  sword 
Was  wielded  in  his  country's  cause, 

To  him  who  battled  with  his  word, 
The  bold  expounder  of  her  laws ! 

And  they  are  gone  —  gone  like  the  lone 
Forgotten  echoes  of  their  tread; 


170  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

And  from  their  niches  now  are  gone 

The  sculptured  records  of  the  dead ! 
As  now  I  gaze,  my  heart  is  stirred 

With  music  of  another  sphere  I 
A  low,  sweet  chime,  which  once  was  heard, 
Comes  like  the  note  of  some  wild  bird 

Upon  my  listening  ear  — 
Recalling  many  a  happy  hour, 
Reviving  many  a  withered  flower, 
Whose  bloom  and  beauty  long  have  laid 
Within  my  sad  heart's  silent  shade : 
Life's  morning  flowers !  that  bud  and  blow 

And  wither  ere  the  sun  hath  kissed 
The  dewdrops  from  their  breasts  of  snow, 

Or  dried  the  landscape's  veil  of  mist ! 

Yes!  When  that  sweetly  mingled  chime 
Stole  on  my  ear  in  boyhood's  time, 
My  glad  heart  drank  the  thrilling  joy, 

Undreaming  of  its  future  pains  — 
As  spell-bound  as  the  Theban  boy 

Listening  to  Memnon's  fabled  strains ! 

Farewell,  old  fane!  And  though,  unsung 

By  bards  thy  many  glories  fell, 
Though  babbling  fame  had  never  rung 

Thy  praises  on  his  echoing  bell  — 
Who  that  hath  seen,  can  e'er  forget 

Thy  grey  old  spire?  —  Who  that  hath  knelt 

Within  thy  sacred  aisles,  nor  felt 
Religion's  self  grow  sweeter  yet? 

Yes !  Though  the  decking  hand  of  Time 
Glory  to  Greece's  fanes  hath  given, 


MINE  THE  LIGHT  171 

That,  from  her  old  heroic  clime, 

Point  proudly  to  their  native  heaven ; 
Though  Rome  hath  many  a  ruined  pile 

To  speak  the  glory  of  her  land, 
And  fair,  by  Egypt's  sacred  Nile, 

Her  mouldering  monuments  may  stand: 
The  joy  that  swells  the  gazer's  heart, 

The  pride  that  sparkles  in  his  eye, 
When  pondering  on  these  piles  where  art 

In  crumbling  majesty  doth  lie  — 
Ne'er  blended  with  them  keener  joy 
Than  mine,  when  but  a  thoughtless  boy 
I  gazed  with  awe-struck,  wondering  eye, 
On  thy  old  spire,  my  Trinity ! 
And  thou  shalt  live  like  words  of  truth,  — • 
Like  golden  monuments  of  youth  — 
As  on  the  lake's  unrippled  breast 
The  mirrored  mountain  lies  at  rest, 
So  shalt  thou  lie,  till  life  depart, 
Mirrored  for  ages  on  my  heart! 

Anonymous 

"MINE  THE  LIGHT  OF  SETTING  SUN" 

"  The  haggard  sky,  the  surf's  dull  roar, 
The  midnight  storm  are  mine  no  more; 
But  mine  the  light  of  setting  sun  — 
The  call  of  birds  when  day  is  done ; 
The  last  sad  gleam  is  loth  to  pass, 
It  weeps  upon  the  golden  grass;  tj 
The  sigh  of  leaves  in  evening  air, 
The  distant  bell  that  calls  to  prayer 
And  nothing  from  my  spirit  bars 
The  benediction  of  the  stars." 

William  Winter 


172  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD 

It  singeth  low  in  every  heart, 

We  hear  it  each  and  all  — 
A  song  of  those  who  answer  not, 

However  we  may  call. 
They  throng  the  silence  of  the  breast; 

We  see  them  as  of  yore  — 
The  kind,  the  true,  the  brave,  the  sweet, 

Who  walk  with  us  no  more. 

More  homelike  seems  the  vast  unknown, 

Since  they  have  entered  there ; 
To  follow  them  were  not  so  hard, 

Wherever  they  may  fare. 
They  cannot  be  where  God  is  not, 

On  any  sea  or  shore; 
Whate'er  betides,  thy  love  abides, 

Our  God  for  evermore ! 

Rev.  John  W.  Chad  wick 


"THERE  IS  NO  DEATH" 

There  is  no  death !  The  stars  go  down 

To  rise  upon  some  fairer  shore, 
And  bright  in  heaven's  jeweled  crown 

They  shine  for  evermore. 

There  is  no  death !  The  dust  we  tread 

Shall  change  beneath  the  summer  showers 

To  golden  grain  or  mellow  fruit 
Or  rainbow-tinted  flowers. 


"THERE  IS  NO  DEATH"  173 

The  granite  rocks  disorganize 

To  feed  the  hungry  moss  they  bear; 

The  forest  leaves  drink  daily  life 
From  out  the  viewless  air. 

There  is  no  death !  The  leaves  may  fall, 
The  flowers  may  fade  and  pass  away  — 

They  only  wait,  through  wintry  hours, 
The  coming  of  the  May. 

There  is  no  death!  An  angel  form 

Walks  o'er  the  earth  with  silent  tread ; 

He  bears  our  best  loved  things  away, 
And  then  we  call  them  "dead." 

He  leaves  our  hearts  all  desolate  — 
He  plucks  our  fairest,  sweetest  flowers-; 

Transplanted  into  bliss,  they  now 
Adorn  immortal  bowers. 

The  bird-like  voice,  whose  joyous  tones 
Made  glad  this  scene  of  sin  and  strife, 

Sings  now  an  everlasting  song, 
Around  the  tree  of  life. 

Where'er  He  sees  a  smile  too  bright, 
Or  heart  too  pure  for  taint  and  vice, 

He  bears  it  to  that  world  of  light, 
To  dwell  in  Paradise. 

Born  unto  that  undying  life, 

They  leave  us  but  to  come  again; 

With  joy  to  welcome  them  —  the  same 
Except  in  sin  and  pain. 


174  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen, 
The  dear  immortal  spirits  tread; 

For  all  the  boundless  Universe 
Is  life  —  there  are  no  dead. 

John  L.  McCreery 

BEYOND 

When  youthful  faith  hath  fled  - 
Of  loving  take  thy  leave; 

Ee  constant  to  the  dead  — 
The  dead  cannot  deceive. 

Sweet,  modest  flowers  of  Spring, 
How  fleet  your  balmy  day  I 

And  man's  brief  year  can  bring 
No  secondary  May: 

No  earthly  burst  again 
Of  gladness  out  of  gloom, 

Fond  hope  and  vision  vain  — 
Ungrateful  to  the  tomb. 

But 't  is  an  old  belief 

That  on  some  solemn  shore, 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  grief, 

Dear  friends  shall  meet  once  more ; 

—  Beyond  the  sphere  of  Time, 
And  Sin  and  Fate's  control, 

Serene  in  endless  prime 
Of  body  and  of  soul. 


SONG  OF  THE  UNIVERSAL  175 

That  creed  I  fain  would  keep, 

That  hope  I  '11  not  forego ; 
Eternal  be  the  sleep, 

Unless  to  waken  so. 

John  Gibson  Lockhart 


SONG  OF  THE  UNIVERSAL 

Come  said  the  Muse, 

Sing  me  a  song  no  poet  yet  has  chanted, 

Sing  me  the  universal. 

In  this  broad  earth  of  ours, 
Amid  the  measureless  grossness  and  the  slag, 
Enclosed  and  safe  within  its  central  heart, 
Nestles  the  seed  perfection. 

•  •  * 

And  thou  America, 

For  the  scheme's  culmination,  its  thought  and  its 

reality, 
For  these  (not  for  thyself)  thou  hast  arrived. 

Thou  too  surroundest  all, 

Embracing,  carrying,  welcoming  all,  thou  too  by 

pathways  broad  and  new, 
To  the  ideal  tendest. 

The  measur'd  faiths  of  other  lands,  the  grandeurs 
of  the  past, 

Are  not  for  thee,  but  grandeurs  of  thine  own, 

Deific  faiths  and  amplitudes,  absorbing,  compre- 
hending all, 

All  eligible  to  all. 


176  SONGS  OF  CHALLENGE 

All,  all  for  immortality, 

Love  like  the  light  silently  wrapping  all, 

Nature's  amelioration  blessing  all, 

The  blossoms,  fruits  of  ages,  orchards  divine  and 

certain, 
Forms,  objects,  growths,  humanities,  to  spiritual 

images  ripening. 

Give  me,  O  God,  to  sing  that  thought, 

Give  me,  give  him  or  her  I  love,  this  quenchless 
faith, 

In  Thy  ensemble,  whatever  else  withheld,  with- 
hold not  from  us, 

Belief  in  plan  of  Thee  enclosed  in  Time  and  Space, 

Health,  peace,  salvation  universal. 

Is  it  a  dream? 

Nay  but  the  lack  of  it  the  dream, 

And  failing  it  life's  lore  and  wealth  a  dream, 

And  all  the  world  a  dream. 

Walt  Whitman 


TO  CAPTAIN  DALE  MABRY 

(The  clothes  were  found  burned  from  his  body  and  the 
flesh  from  his  fingers,  but  the  fingers  still  grasped  the 
wheel  of  the  aircraft.  —  News  Item.  ) 

At  the  portal  of  bright  Valhalla 
They  bade  a  stranger  stand. 
"And  where  is  your  dented  armor? 
And  where  is  your  reeking  brand? 
Was  it  some  mighty  battle, 
Where  ye  sloughed  your  body,  then, 


TO  CAPTAIN  DALE  MABRY  177 

That  ye  stand  at  the  close-tiled  gateway 
Of  the  Lodge  of  the  Fighting  Men?'V 

There  came  no  word  of  answer 

From  the  soul  besmirched  with  smoke, 

But,  reining  her  rearing  charger, 

The  fierce-eyed  Valkyr  spoke: 

"  Out  of  the  whirling  fury 

Of  the  scarlet  flames  I  come; 

It  was  there  that  I  found  his  spirit, 

And  I  bring  his  spirit  home  I 

"  Over  the  dying  Roma 

The  roaring  fire-cloud  swept 

To  the  post  in  its  blazing  pathway; 

To  the  post  that  his  spirit  kept ; 

I  charge  you  bid  him  welcome, ' 

Not  for  his  sword-blade's  steel, 

But  the  charred  and  twisted  handclasps 

On  the  charred  and  twisted  wheel  I" 

At  the  portal  of  bright  Valhalla 
The  sentinel  stands  aside, 
And  cries  his  name  to  the  chamber, 
Where  the  souls  of  the  brave  abide ; 
Their  blades  have  flashed  from  their  scab- 
bards, 

They  have  bidden  a  welcome  high  — 
The  men  who  died  in  their  courage  — 
To  the  man  who  knew  how  to  die. 

Frederic  F.  Van  de  Water 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Arnold,  Edwin 55 

Arnold,  Matthew 63 

Banks,  G.  Linnaeus 69 

Banning,  Major  Kendall i5,  141 

Beers,  Henry  A 76 

Bell,  Jerome  B 63 

Bradford,  Gamaliel 53 

Bronson,  Francis  Woolsey 7 

Bronte,  Emily 159 

Brown,  Thomas  Edward 75 

Browning,  Robert 8,  166 

Eurnet,  Dana 149 

Burr,  Amelia  Josephine 22,  35 

Burroughs,  John 48 

Burton,  Sir  Richard 108 

C.,  G.  B So 

Carman,  Bliss 44,  120 

Carruth,  William  Herbert 51 

Chadwick,  Rev.  John  W 172 

Clark,  Badger 21 

Cleanthes  the  Stoic 166 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh 90,  165 

Connell,  Norreys,  pseud.  (Conal  O'Riordan)   ...       4 

Cory,  William  Johnson 91,  132 

Crosby,  John  Bemer 16 

Dobson,  Austin       146 

Driscoll,  Louise 53 


i8o  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Du  Maurier,  George 76 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo 94 

Evans,  Florence  Wilkinson       131 

Fane,  Violet       130 

Fisher,  Stokely  S.  , 73 

Fitzgerald,  Edward 97,  98 

G.  B.  C 80 

Glasgow,  J.  Scott 128 

Going,  Charles  Buxton 129 

Guiney,  Louise  Imogen 10 

Hall,  Gertrude 149 

Hall,  Sharlot  M 58 

Heidenstam,  Verner  von 154 

Henderson,  Rose 85 

Henley,  W.  E 49 

Herbert,  George 13 

Hodgson,  Lieut.  W.  N 9 

Hort.  Gertrude  M 5 

Hovey,  Richard 74 

Jackson,  Helen  Hunt 34 

Jefferson,  Joseph 157 

Jones,  Amanda  T 135 

Jordan,  Thomas 92 

Kester,  Paul 154 

Kiser,  S.  E 89 

Knibbs,  Henry  Herbert 15,  68,  117 

Lee-Hamilton,  Eugene 94 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard 161 

Liddell,  Catherine  C 82 

Lockhart,  John  Gibson 174 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  181 

Lowell,  James  Russell 39 

Lytton,  Edward  Robert  Lytton  Bulwer  (Owen  Mere- 
dith, pseud.) 57,  103 

McCreery,  John  L 172 

Mackintosh,  Charles  Henry 92 

Malone,  Walter 65 

Mangan,  James  Clarence 145 

Mann,  Dorothea  Lawrance 116 

Marquis,  Don 78,  104 

Matheson,  George 155 

Meredith,  Owen 57,  103 

Mifflin,  Lloyd 118 

Monkhous«,  Cosmo 126 

Morris,  Sir  Lewis        45 

Myers,  Frederic  William  Henry 69 

Neihardt,  John  G 4,  87,  142 

Newbolt,  Sir  Henry 24 

Ogilvie,  Will  H 62,  100 

Omar  Khayyam 97,  98 

O'Shaughnessy,  Arthur 112 

O'Sheel,  Shaemas       86 

O'Sullivan,  Seumas 136 

Paine,  Albert  Bigelow . 114 

Parsons,  Thomas  William 143 

Paterson,  Major  A.  B 113 

Percy,  William  Alexander 101 

Pulsifer,  Harold  Trowbridge 3 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter 39 

Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth 163 

Rethy,  Joseph  Bernard 166 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington 26,  83 

Romaine,  Harry 52 


182  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Rossetti,  Christina  Georgina 138 

Rydberg,  Viktor 1 1 

Scollard,  Clinton 156 

Seitz,  Don  C 134 

Speyer,  Leonora 49 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 72,  137 

Stork,  Charles  Wharton 11,30,154 

Story,  William  Wetmore  , 121 

Swain,  John  D 122 

Taylor,  Rachel  Annand 162 

Tennyson,  Alfred 36,  159 

Thoreau,  Henry  David 53 

Thorley,  Wilfrid 118 

Van  de  Water,  Frederic  F 7,  28,  42,  in,  176 

Vedder,  Elihu 119,148 

Villon,  Francois 118 

Ware,  Eugene  F 102,  163 

Watson,  Rosamund  Marriott 99 

Wharton,  Edith       139 

Wheelock,  John  Hall 168 

Whitman,  Walt 115,  151,  175 

Wilson,  John  French 81 

Winter,  William 74.  171 

Wordsworth,  William       38,  89 


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